


Fugitives

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [4]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Agron learns priorities, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Duro Lives, Duro POV, Duro discovers a hidden talent, M/M, Nasir POV, Nasir brings his game, POV First Person, Revenge happens to all the “best” asshats, Spartacus has ideals, There is no stopping Nasir now, canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Sequel to The Arena“We kill them all,” Spartacus says and Nasir heeds every word.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.) HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters. FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. Speak of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, again! I hope you've been enjoying "And Prove More Fierce"!
> 
> This installment is basically all told from Nasir's point of view except for ONE of the chapters, which is told from Duro's POV.
> 
> This story picks up IMMEDIATELY after "The Arena" leaves off. If you haven't read "The Arena," "The Brotherhood," and/or "The Recruit," I recommend doing so as I have not made any attempt for the individual fics to stand alone.

 

“Crixus!  Crixus!”

Agron flinched and I commanded myself not to stare at the slave girl.  Naevia was barely recognizable with her long hair shorn to unruly tufts and lovely face battered.  She cradled the Gaul’s head to her breast as he slumped, yet bound between the whipping posts.  Two lovers, both of them wept openly.  I had heard nothing of her fate, but the pain would be worse than his, of that I was certain.  Where Crixus had merely insulted his dominus’ pride, Naevia had trespassed upon her domina’s heart.  She would be shown no mercy.

Furious at my own helplessness, I entered the ludus in Fortis’ wake, Duro behind me and Agron following.  Gladiators were shoved to the ground along pathways, wrists yet shackled.  Spartacus was tossed into the cage, perhaps on Glaber’s orders that he be kept separate from the other men.

A shove from an irritable soldier caused Duro to stumble into his brother, and Duro loudly objected with foolhardy courage: “Fuck ass, you Roman cock!”

A punch to the face--Duro barely shifted weight under the assault, but the resulting tussle slammed him against Agron’s side.  His brother dragged him down to sit against the outside of the cage rather than allow the stupid shit to incite further irritation from our captors and risk reopening wound.  No one would call the medicus tonight.  No one would care if a gladiator bled out a mere dozen paces from ludus infirmary.

Fucking Romans.

Their stench was everywhere as they looted our cells, searching for anything we might have stolen or bribed from the guards.  A key, for instance.

I thought of the pot of oil -- I had looked for it just this morning and I was now relieved to have found it, the water jug, and used cloth gone.  I owed Lysandros an even greater debt: if those items had been found, some of Glaber’s men might have made assumptions of me and pressed unwanted attentions.

Though neither possibility could be completely ruled out regardless.

Once the soldiers moved on to shout obscenities at another obstinate gladiator, I shifted from the position assigned to me and claimed the space between Duro and Agron.  Agron was scowling at Duro’s reckless pride.  Duro was pouting at Agron’s overbearing manner.  I endeavored to present distraction from their respective displeasure with each other.  There was one sure way to accomplish it:

“How would Glaber have me meet my end?”

Agron looked up twice in quick succession: the sound of my voice caught his attention, and then my words struck deep.

Duro sputtered and squinted: “How did you fucking know?”

“If a house slave can become a gladiator, can take up sword and fight in the arena, what is to stop others from cutting the throat of their master in the middle of night?”

“Goatfuck,” Duro muttered.

Agron frowned tightly.  “You make assumptions.”

“Rightly?”  I arched a brow.

His expression soured further.  His hands tightened around the chain between his wrists and he looked away.

I had my answer.

“You expected this,” Agron realized, as petulant as only a free-born, unbroken man could ever be.

Swallowing a fond smile, I agreed: “From the moment brand touched skin.”  I studied the mark on my arm.  A moment passed and then chain clanked, links scraping, as Agron reached over and traced the raised lines of mutilated flesh with edge of thumb.  His shoulder bumped mine.

“This is what you would not break words on?”

I shook my head.  It had honestly not occurred to me to mention this peril; I had thought the issue obvious.  Yet again, my brothers proved our differences.  “That is another matter.  Of little importance now.”

There was nothing to be gained in bringing Batiatus’ schemes against Titus Calavius and Solonius to light; Crixus’ punishment would weigh far heavier on the minds of potential allies.  Visceral proof of our dominus’ true nature.

“Truly,” I insisted when Agron’s expression scrunched with obstinate argument.

He leaned away and spat, “Shit keeps rising higher in this fucking hole.”

At our backs, Spartacus whispered, “Perhaps it would be best not to be present when it fills the mouth.”

I twitched, shoulder banging into iron grating, and shot back, “You would speak of this _****now?”****_

“I speak of nothing,” Spartacus answered with a careless shrug.

“Nothing,” Duro mused quietly, “sounds much like escape.”

Neither Spartacus nor I denied it.  Agron was watching me, piecing things together, adding up my odd conferences with Spartacus since the initial announcement of Calavius’ funeral games.  “This is why you sought counsel with Spartacus?”

I hissed, “Why he sought mine, yes.”

Agron shook his head, frustrated and confounded.  “Did you think I would make objection?”

“No, I feared you would commit to cause and take action absent support.”

He reared back with a snort.  “You’ll have even the fucking Gauls at your back after tonight’s events.”

“For now, as we have motivation but no opportunity, we do nothing,” I insisted.

Duro persisted: “How would ‘nothing’ find way past Batiatus and his fucking Romans?”

Spartacus answered: “There is but one path: we kill them all.”

_****We kill them all.** ** _

I thought of the soldiers, throats slashed.

I thought of Batiatus breathing his last in a pool of blood.

I thought of Ashur falling over cliff’s edge.

I thought of Glaber and his wife, both of them glassy-eyed and cold.

I thought of Numerius separated from thumb, hand, arm, head.

I thought of my hands covered in gore and blood stains that would never come free from under fingernails.

_****We kill them all.** ** _

“Yes.”

Duro and Agron both startled.  My brothers stared at me, eyes wide, and I realized this was the first time they had stood witness to the beast within me, the part of Nasir that would burn the world to ash if it meant learning my brother’s name, remembering even one beloved face of kin, diverting a single family’s caravan to camp far from raiders.

“You neglect to answer query,” I pointed out to Duro and, in the same breath, reminded both him and Agron of my reason to fight: “In what manner will I greet death?”

Unhappily, my German brother reported what Lysandros must have overheard in the pulvinus: “Glaber plans to have you fall in the arena to--”

Agron lifted a hand and Duro shushed.  No matter.  I had heard enough.  I could guess the rest: it would not be enough to kill me within the ludus; I would breathe my last upon the sands, body broken and spirit shattered to the roar of the crowd, proving to all that a house slave’s place was forever fated to be beneath Roman hand.

My lover reached for me, tilting his forehead against mine.  “You will greet death,” he rasped, “with teeth bared and weapon in grasp.  Fucking fierce.”

I grinned.  This faith, this moment, this man.  I declared, “As I would greet any who would dare to remove me from your side.”

I had never seen Agron so luminous with joy, so fearsome with determination.  His smile was remarkable to behold and I had not even given him plain words to express the depth of my affection.  One day, when I learned the tongue spoken by his people and told of my love, he might just burst.

Duro shifted awkwardly, shaking his head.  “You two are fucking mad.”  His gaze flicked toward us.  “And somewhat terrifying.”

Agron and I shared a look, a pair of guilty grins, and a flash of teeth as we bit back our laughter.

“Fuck my ass,” Duro muttered.  “It falls to me to teach you both a little fucking charm.”

“For what purpose, brother?” Agron teased.  “Our fucking does not require it.”

I sputtered a laugh into my cupped hands at Duro’s defeated groan.  Spartacus just shook his head.  He was probably rolling his eyes at us, but he did not attempt to turn our focus back to the matter at hand.  We all knew the matter at hand: allies.  On the morrow, we would see to their acquisition.

That task was more difficult than anticipated.  It was immediately made very clear that anyone daring to step out of line would pay for their temerity: Leviticus was beaten into the sand by Roman fists when he moved to exchange practice sword for spear -- a thing he had done countless times over the years absent permission.

“This man has been scheduled to fight in the arena,” Doctore informed dispassionately, but I could see how he bristled at being denied authority over his own men.  “A replacement will cause displeasure among the citizens -- displeasure which they will loosen upon those in the pulvinus.”

Where the legatus would sit.

With a final kick to Leviticus’ hunched belly, the man was abandoned sprawled in the dirt.  Doctore did not move to help him up.  No one did.  Not even Spartacus who stood at a palus with Duro and Agron, exchanging information and making plans.

Leviticus was denied counsel with Medicus until training had finished.  His face and ribs were colorfully bruised for days thereafter.

The new recruits and myself fared better.  We yet remembered the way of existing beneath the watchful eye of harsh master: lower gaze, stand straight, respond promptly.  Mannerisms that Duro and Agron had never learned.  As such, the soldiers focused too much attention upon them.  I was constantly elbowing Duro to draw his challenging gaze away from our captors.  Sometimes I succeeded.  Too many times, I did not.  Whenever one of Glaber’s men made move to strike Duro, Agron was suddenly in the way, taking the hit as his brother’s leg slowly healed.

Though I burned to come between their blows and Agron’s mottled skin, I stayed the impulse.  Here and now, Agron was able to protect his brother.  Such was his right and Duro made no objection that Agron claimed it.  Nor did Agron request that Duro bow head or lower gaze.  They resisted in silence.  I did not like it, but I respected their choice.

I lost count of the number of bruises I outlined with shaking fingers upon my lover’s face, back, belly.  Most in the shape of knuckles and fists.  Some traced their source to armor-enforced elbows.  Knees.  The outline of boot heels.

My lover never complained in the baths as I carefully navigated his damaged flesh with strigil, hating the Romans a little more with each mark, desperately commanding myself to ignore the gazes of our guards.  Their attention was on us constantly.  Even as we bathed.

The chokehold was suffocating.

Surprisingly, it was the lack of coin and whores at month’s end that saw the men to Spartacus’ cause.  Mistreatment at the whims of the soldiers was bad; denial of the few comforts the men could claim -- coin for gambling and cunt -- tipped the scales.

“We vowed to fight for the honor of this house, and yet it shows us none,” Rabanus complained as we sparred under the afternoon sun.  He would be balls deep in a whore by now if Legatus Glaber had not offered fucking patronage to Batiatus and strict advice on ludus management.  “Tell Spartacus I await instruction.”

I nodded.  “Well received.”

And I hoped for quick, decisive action; the next games would take place in eight days.  Glaber would be very displeased if I were not assigned a match weighted against me.  The approval of young Numerius was no longer a concern for Batiatus.  Numerius himself might even be glad to see me fall: one more reminder of his father’s indulgence vanquished to memory.

Unless…

“I do not care for fucking look,” Agron growled over his evening portion.  We had been assigned seats in the hall for meals and any words exchanged ran the risk of punishment, yet Agron dared.  Of course he did.

Keeping my shoulders hunched and head bowed to avoid drawing attention, I muttered, “Numerius.  Position in his household may hold merit.”

Duro frowned across the table at me.  “You beat his guards.  They will not have forgotten.”

There was nothing those brutes could do that I did not consider worth the risk.  “I am aware.”

“You will fight in the arena no matter where you reside,” Agron snarled on a whisper, his split lip oozing blood.

“Yet lack of Roman soldiers…” I drawled, angling for them to heed my meaning: if I were to escape from the Calavius domus, perhaps some of Glaber’s men would be sent to look for me, allowing opportunity for the men of the ludus to rise up with better odds of success.  Or I might make my way here under cover of darkness to surprise the guards, unlock ludus gate, and--

“No.”  Agron hooked my gaze and the fury I saw in his eyes stilled my tongue.  “We cannot have you from our sight.”

Duro cleared his throat with a short nod.

I sighed a silent, frustrated breath.

“Nasir,” Agron breathed and I glanced up just as the tip of his tongue wetted lower lip.  Fuck.  Split or not, I would give every last coin I had earned to date for one kiss.  The men who had expected a visit from whores were not the only ones left dissatisfied.  Due to Glaber’s fucking armored shits, Agron and I had yet to find even a semi-private opportunity to do little more than briefly embrace one another.  Eleven days of unrelentingly limited contact.  I was ready to murder someone.

From the heated plea in Agron’s eyes, he was as desperate as I was.

Well.  He could beg all he liked.  That did not necessarily mean that I would abandon my budding plan.  My lover was not my master.  I would take the course of greatest benefit for Agron and Duro.  Just as they would do in my place.

I grunted and spat whispers of my scheme to Spartacus as we battled the following day.

“You have been to that domus before,” he allowed, blocking my thrust and spinning about to return blow.  “Can you escape?”

I dodged neatly.  “Of course.”  Any house slave who yet possessed wits could manage that much.  It was the discovery of escape that kept us from crossing threshold.

“And how would you see yourself to his house in the first place?”

By bartering the only bit of information I held of any value.  “My former dominus is an influential man among senators.  Batiatus would be pleased to know his preferences in order to secure favor.”

This revelation would likely alert Marius to my continued survival -- something he would not have made inquiry upon lest he reveal my importance to Batiatus -- but I would face that complication at later time.  The more immediate concern was how I would approach these delicate negotiations.  Batiatus was no fool.  Unless handled carefully, the very information with which I sought to secure my absence from this house would lash me to my dominus’ side instead.

Twin wooden blades trapped my spear.  I twisted and lunged, forcing Spartacus to bat blunted tip away.

“Agron and Duro agree to this?”

“Neither stands as my dominus.”

“Well spoken.”  Spartacus advanced and I twirled the spear, knocking both wooden swords aside before lunging to capitalize on opening provided.  He swiftly retreated.  “But I would ask you to delay a little longer.”

“For what fucking purpose?” I gritted out, striking at his ankles.  He leaped up and the blow did not connect.  “Glaber would sooner expect rebellion from within rather than outside assistance.”

“Surely you can hear the preparations taking place within the villa?”

I could.  The upper levels were once again in a calamitous uproar.

“Let us wait a day or two more and see what opportunities arise.”

I huffed: we would not require grand opportunity if the Gauls would side with us.  But, as Agron had reported, none of them would grab cock without Crixus holding their balls.  And since the Undefeated Gaul was yet confined to his cell for healing -- though I suspected the true reason was to punish the man with madness as thoughts turned toward the unknown fate of his lover -- he was likely unaware of the treatment his men suffered or the response Spartacus campaigned for.

“Spartacus!  Nasir!  You are summoned.”

We froze.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Duro pause in his drills though he did not dare do more than allow his gaze a moment of sidelong travel.  Agron charged his opponent, Mannus, knocking the man to the sands and planting himself in my path.  He made a show of wiping his brow, concealing his mouth from the soldiers as I drew close.

“Return to my arms,” he murmured and I could feel his focus as if touched by hands.

I ached to acknowledge him with a look, but I did not.  I breathed: “Always.”

A Roman soldier stood over Spartacus and myself as we quickly cleaned our skin and replaced our dusty subligaria.  We wound scraps of cloth around our wrists in anticipation of the shackles.  Our assigned guard clamped them in place and herded us to the gate where four guards waited.  The villa was undergoing strict cleaning and considerable arrangement.  Another celebration, indeed.  Very soon.

Batiatus greeted us with open arms as if we did not train under threat of physical injury; abuse from Glaber’s men could be easily heard from this very office and viewed from balcony’s edge.

“Ah!  Spartacus!  Nasir!  Excellent.”  Batiatus nodded with satisfaction.  “First, Nasir.  Numerius has requested an audience at his residence.  His timing has saved me a messenger.”  Collecting a document from a pile of identical copies, he handed it to the guard on my left.  “See that this is delivered into Numerius’ hands.”  With a careless wave of his hand, I was dismissed: “To the wagon and attend your patron.”

Well.  The thorny matter of my placement in the Calavius domus had resolved itself as smoothly as silk.  Too smoothly.

My belly twisted.

Spartacus, Agron, and Duro had only vague notions of my intentions.  How would I coordinate my escape?  We’d had yet to break words on timing.

Fuck.

There was nothing I could do or say to either delay my departure or gain opportunity for private conference with my allies, but perhaps I could guarantee my return.  That, at least, would inform Spartacus of my window of opportunity for causing distraction or coming to aid.

I cleared my throat.  “Dominus, apologies.”

“Yes, yes, what is it?”

I resisted the urge to lower my gaze as I spoke.  “Regarding my former dominus, if you would care to know -- the day of his birth approaches.  I would happily assist in selection of favored gift if it pleases you.”

“Ah, yes.  You were good Marius’ body slave.”  Batiatus grinned, assessing me.  “And also a man of clever mind.  Yes, upon your return, I would know your recommendations.”

With a bow, I excused myself: “Dominus.”

As a pair of guards escorted me to villa’s entrance, I found myself able to breathe.  Batiatus would have me return, if not this day, then the next, surely.  I had not told the exact date of Marius’ birthday.  From his manner, Batiatus clearly expected Numerius’ requirements of me to be somewhat brief and undemanding.

Then again, Batiatus had also expected Numerius to grant mercy to Varro.

A male slave that I had seen in passing at the Calavius house stood in the entryway.  He gave me an evaluating look before accepting the message from the guard with direction to see it to his master’s hand as soon as possible.

I was seated in the cart between Numerius’ two guards.  I remembered them well, and they clearly remembered me.  As tempting as it was to close eyes and disregard their presence, it would merely inflame their hatred.  Instead, I called upon Tiberius and employed his unassuming stare aimed at wagon’s wall.

It was a very long trip.

Yet my arrival was twice as unsettling.  No one came to receive us, not even the house slave who would normally be charged with tending to callers.  The domus echoed with silence.

I was led to a room where state business would be conducted.  It was tidier than the lanista’s office, but a glance showed items of great import and documents meant for mature minds.

Numerius sat behind the desk, frowning at a roll of paper held in his grasp.

“Dominus,” the slave announced.  “Message of importance from Lanista Batiatus.”

The Roman boy tossed the papyrus in his hand aside and reached for the offered scroll.  Whatever he read upon it pleased him greatly.  His smile was made genuine with joy.

“Spartacus will face Crixus in ludus’ square two days hence.  Inform my mother we will attend.”

“Shall I send word to Batiatus in acceptance?”

“Not yet.”  The boy shooed the house slave from the room leaving me bracketed by his guards.  Numerius’ gaze fell upon me and I revised my estimation of his maturity -- he had grown much in the wake of his father’s death, discovering pride, arrogance, and anger.

Fuck the gods.  This visit was unlikely to be as pleasant as the one previous.

“Nasir,” he drawled, lips twisting into a smirk.

I inclined my head.

“Barbarian name.  You were called something else once.  A proper Roman name.”

I waited to be given leave to speak.

“What was it?”

“Tiberius, Dominus.”

“Tiberius.  The name of a true Roman, yet you are not.”  He arched a brow expectantly.

“I am Syrian.”

“Yes, dark skin, hair, and eyes.  No one would have had you absent a good Roman name.  What was your charge before I saved your life?”

“Body slave.”

Numerius laughed, high and cold.  “Were that true, you would be capable of composing my acceptance to friend Batiatus, would you not?”

“Yes.”

“See it done.”

A moment later, I found myself presented with ink and pen.  A clean sheet of paper was laid out upon desk’s surface.  I was not offered a seat, but it was not required.  Still, I balked at the prospect of shifting my balance precariously: leaning over the desk with two unhappy guards at my back… my imagination was not lacking in such a scenario.

Yet I had no other recourse.  Kneeling would put me at an even more severe disadvantage.  I gestured toward the provided paper weights and awaited permission to touch them.

Numerius granted it with a nod.  Paper now held stationary, I carefully arranged the chain between my shackles, inked the pen, and began the address.  The first words were not as smoothly written as I expected; it had been too long since I’d inscribed.  My hands were now better suited to blunter tasks, but the penmanship would serve.  The subsequent lines were neater.  After a moment, I inquired, “Would Dominus care to dictate message?”

“No.”

I nodded and composed the reply.  Flattery flowing from pen’s tip with each careful stroke.  When I had finished reporting the acceptance of invitation and attendance of Numerius and his mother at villa’s event, I straightened up and took half a step back.

Numerius held out his hand.  The guard standing at my right moved forward, collected the message, and passed it into his dominus’ hand.  The young Roman’s eyes focused on the calligraphy.  He read.  He grinned.  He tossed the paper aside and observed: “An eloquent response.  I am in need of a body slave.  Would you accept post should it be offered?”

Woodenly, I replied, “I attend my patron.”

“Would you accept?”

“I regret Batiatus has not given leave for me to make reply to such generous offer.”

“Hm.  Well, perhaps you can offer another reply, then.  An explanation.”

I waited.

“You could have bested Gordianus in the arena and yet you drew out the fight, built the man’s legend until the people demanded the rudis for him.  Why?”

I demurred: “Dominus’ appraisal of my skill in the arena is very generous.”

“I would have your answer, gladiator.”

I lied: “I fought for generous patron and his honored father.”

My words did not please him.  The true purpose of my visit would now be brought to the fore.  So be it.  I would endure whatever treatment Numerius saw fit to bestow so that I would be all the sooner able to assist Spartacus’ move and fight alongside my brothers.

Numerius stood.  “What instructions were you given regarding the games?  How were you meant to honor my father, gladiator?”

I recalled: “With blood and death.”

“And yet your match was the cleanest.”  He leaned against the desk and glared.  “You owe me a debt.”  His brows twitched.  “Plus interest.”

I drew a breath.  Nasir stared defiantly ahead as Tiberius clawed beneath my skin:

_****Lower gaze!** ** _

_****Bow head!** ** _

_****Beg for mercy!** ** _

To what end?  Numerius had already decided my fate.  Tiberius might extend my life by moments, but the cost would be high.  I would sacrifice Nasir.

_****No.** ** _

It was the one price I could not pay.  I refused to die the death of a broken house slave.  I would face whatever came as the man I chose to be.  I would face it as a fighter.

_****“Fucking fierce.”** ** _

Yes, I was.

If this was where I would meet the Ferryman, then I would do so as Agron had pridefully predicted: with bared teeth and weapon in hand.

“Remove him to the yard,” Numerius commanded.

And so it began.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure which gladiator gets beaten up by Glaber’s soldiers in the ludus in Season 1, Episode 13. It’s not Leviticus, but I figured it would be more likely that the veteran fighters (who are used to doing things with a certain level of autonomy and have settled into a pattern of behavior) would provoke the soldiers first.
> 
> Roman writing materials and instruments:  
> http://romanatoz.blogspot.jp/2011/03/writing-instruments-and-materials.html
> 
> I really, REALLY hope you enjoy this chapter and the next few that follow. This is probably my favorite sequence in the fic series so far and I have my fingers crossed that you enjoy it as much as I do!!


	2. Legacy of Numerius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: gore (both violent AND medicinal)... death...
> 
> Music I compulsively listened to: "Say Something (I'm Giving Up On You)" cover by Boyce Avenue featuring Carly Rose Sonenclar  
> This song gives me so many feels. This chapter gives me so many feels. Tissues were needed. So, um, FYI.
> 
> Formatting: Again, I use past perfect tense for flashbacks at the beginning of this chapter.

 

Agony.

I woke on a tide of pain; every part of my body throbbed with the sway of cart, the lurch of wooden wheels, the press of naked, foreign limbs against stinging skin.

Was it evening?  Perhaps the next morning.  The effort required to open eyes was too great.  My other senses would have to suffice.

Humid heat -- easily skewing judgment of time by air alone -- clogged my throat.  My swollen throat, handled roughly.  Very roughly.  Eyes yet closed, I pawed quickly through scattered remnants of memories:

The tiled, outdoor square of the Calavius domus.

Late afternoon light.  A warm breeze.  Carved stone columns standing as the bars of a Roman cage.

The guards striking me with fists and feet, elbows and knees.

Agron had not been able to spare me from rude treatment after all.

_****Apologies.****_

I recalled the taste of blood upon my tongue.  Across my lips.  At some point, I had no longer made attempt to swallow it.  A house slave would have to scrub the tiles upon hand and knee.

_****Apologies.****_

“I’ve made inquiries toward the gladiator who received the rudis: Gordianus,” Numerius had sneered and then laughed.  “I think I shall enjoy correcting your error more than I would have enjoyed seeing him fall in the arena.”

How foolish I had been to believe that I, a mere former-house slave, could free a gladiator, could send a man home to loving arms of family.  How fucking foolish.

_****Apologies.****_

The jarring smack of a wooden practice blade landing blow after blow upon bruised flesh absent proper strength.  Numerius would never be a gladiator.

I may have smiled.

A muscled arm banding-locking-squeezing around my throat.  Agron had taught me this wrestling maneuver; it was meant to send opponent to unconsciousness… or death.  Had I fought before I’d fallen into darkness?

I knew not.

_****Apologies.****_

Waking moments: a dank cell, the rank stench of human waste, rancid gruel on my tongue, an old man’s soothing murmur, glaring light and shackles and dizziness as I stumbled meekly under rough hands before slumping upon wooden bench, shouts, creaks, movement--

I did not fight.  I did not resist.

_****Apologies.** ** _

A soft whimper from the opposite bench within wagon’s cart pulled me into the moment.

A spittle-wet snarl from near my shoulder: “Shut your fucking mouth, rotten cunt!”

The wagon lurched and, along with it, my stomach.  I was not returning to the ludus.

Agron, Duro…

_****Apologies.** ** _

A sharp cry -- the same woman, her pain and distress eking out despite slaver’s command.

“One more sound -- one more fucking sound -- and you won’t even set eyes on the mines!”

The mines.

I was in a slaver’s wagon bound for the mines.

How odd; I’d always expected to be more terrified.  Perhaps I hurt too much.  The pain unfolded over me in scallop-edged circles, like flowers blossoming one at a time.

Fucking flowers.  Duro had rightly accused me of poetic words.

Slumber tugged at me, beckoning, promising respite, and I wished more than anything to follow…

And then a friendly presence slid into my thoughts, taking the seat beside mine, bowl of tasteless soup in the grasp of roughened hands.  A soft, disappointed voice: _****“You accept death.”****_

And my reply: _****“And what ought I embrace?”****_

_****“Pain.  Embrace pain.”** ** _

_****“I’m no fucking gladiator.”** ** _

But I was.  I fucking was.

Another woman made attempt to comfort the first.  I listened past her quiet, frantic words of warning, her pleas.  Listened beyond cart’s walls…

_****“Sense of surroundings.”** ** _

The road was quiet; I could hear no other wagons nearby.  A beam of sunlight pierced the gap in the cloth tarp, slicing across one eyelid.  The wagon rattled and I flexed my muscles carefully.  Everything hurt.  My throat was alarmingly tight, my breaths whistling softly, dragging in and out.  My tongue felt swollen and my mouth was dry.  My hands were shackled, but the wrappings had been left upon my wrists.

The wrappings.

And what of the bronze pen, stolen from the desk of Titus Calavius, that I had slid beneath them?

Waiting for another sharp jerk of wheels’ edge upon crossing ruts, I managed to roll arm against thigh and--

The slender metal shaft was yet there.  Fuck the gods.

The woman sobbed and the slaver snapped, lurched across my slumped form to strike her.  I opened my eyes -- gummy and swollen -- tore the pen from underneath shackle and wrapping, and _****s** **truck!****_

Blood.  Hot and pulsing gushed over my fingers and face.  I grabbed for the slaver’s throat, choking off his air so that not even a gurgle escaped him.  He flailed briefly and I gritted my teeth at the elbow that knocked against my shoulder, but strength fled him with every heartbeat.

No less than ten pairs of horrified eyes watched the man fade to the afterlife.  I searched his person, but found no key.  Of course not.  The slaver who rode in the cart would not hold it.  I would have to retrieve it from one of the others outside.

Unless I fashioned my own.

With a quick twist, I pulled the pen from his greasy, unshaven throat.  The blood no longer sprayed, pulsed, or pooled.  I turned attention to shackles.  The length of bloodied metal was just thin enough to fit into the lock.  I knew nothing of opening locks, but I poked and slid, pressed and jabbed.

And met with no success.

Fuck.

Well.  If I could not rid myself of the chains, then I would fight while wearing them.  Before we reached the mines.

I did not expect any of the gaunt, hopeless, startled creatures sharing the cart to aid me.  They did not offer.  But they did not try to stop me from peering through the slips of fabric to count my enemies.

The slaver’s cudgel lay at the feet of my neighbor, a wizened old man who gaped at me as if I were a monster.  A beast.  There was no reassuring response to be given, so I considered the wooden club.  A sturdier weapon than the pen, but would my stiff and screamingly sore body allow me to wield it with enough strength to be effective?

I rolled my shoulders.  Stretched my arms.

Embraced the pain.

I replaced the pen in my wrist wrappings and collected the cudgel.

Now settled upon a plan, I tugged at the laces keeping the tarp shut.  Bit through the weakest, frayed portion.  Parted cloth... and launched myself from cart’s bench.

A blur of forest -- quiet road -- late morning light.  I landed upon the first man, my body howling and blunt weapon crashing down upon his face.

_****Sword!** ** _

I yanked it from his belt.  Slashed at his startled-shouting-swearing companion.

The spray of blood.

Another fountain of red followed from the cut throat of the first man as he moaned from club strike.

The cart lurched to a stop.  I dropped and rolled beneath.  Shouts that went unanswered.  Booted feet running toward wagon’s rear.  I was already waiting.  The blade slid up thigh and thrust deep between legs.

The man screamed.

My hands were drenched.

Bracing my sore feet against the undercarriage, I jerked the sword free.  Rolled back out the way I’d come, crawled-clawed-climbed wagon’s side to my feet and leaped at the driver.  Drivers.  Two men.  Two dead men.  They fell to the ground.  There was one more.  Somewhere.  One more.

Left or right?

I dropped forward, behind the horses, and landed on my belly.

Face-to-startled-face with the last man, the slaver hiding beneath cart’s undercarriage.

He had not enough time to shout.

More blood.  More broken bone.  More death.

I bared my teeth.

Standing quickly -- before the horses decided to trample me beneath their hooves, I rounded the wagon, cutting the throat of each man before beginning my search for the key.  The second driver had it in his possession.  I unlocked my shackles and tossed both them and the key into the cart.

 _ ** **See yourselves free,****_  I wanted to say, but my breath was whistling even worse now, my lungs barely taking enough air to keep the black spots confined to the edge of vision.  I dragged the bodies off of the road.  A task Duro, even injured, could have easily handled.  A task Agron would have accomplished by tossing each corpse like a sack of grain.  I was spent by the time I’d removed them to the ditch.

I stopped, sat, breathed.  Paused to consider the path ahead and the one behind.

The old man who had been seated beside me poked his filthy, grizzled head out of the cart.  I waved amicably to him.  I could only imagine how my face and throat must appear.  My chest and sides were covered in bruises and welts.  Recent ones.  I judged no more than two days had passed since Numerius had begun to inflict his sense of justice upon me.

Was this the day of celebration at the ludus?  Did Spartacus and Crixus prepare to fight?

My first inclination was to turn fucking cart around and head back.  I saw no reason to deny the impulse.

I looked down at my hands and grimaced.  I was covered in blood.  Choosing the smallest of the slavers, I began stripping him of clothing.

One by one, the slaves emerged from the cart.  Many were naked.  I made no attempt to stop them from fashioning some sort of covering from what was at hand.  I heard the clink of coin but ignored it.  I cared only for a belt and scabbard to complete my disguise.

I cleaned the blade on a patch of grass and sheathed it.

The thought of driving the wagon back to Capua was a daunting one, but I knew I would not make the trip on my own two feet.  I could only embrace the pain for so long.

Warm, rough fingers reached out of my memory and cupped my face.

_****“Return to my arms.”** ** _

Determination reaffirmed, I started for the driver’s seat, pulling myself up with a sheer groan that shredded my throat from the inside.  I searched under the bench and -- yes!  Water.  I drank.  When a man of scars and middle years presented himself on the ground beside me, I passed a sloshing skin to him.  There was food and more water and perhaps wine as well.  I could not bring myself to hoard any of it for my own sake.  Wine was the very last thing I desired.  As for sustenance, my throat would not allow dry food to pass.  I would surely choke.

A laugh gurgled in my chest, rubbing against hollow belly: who would have guessed I would long for the gruel of the ludus?

I took up the reins.  Snapped them.  The horses merely huffed a sigh.

I snapped the reins harder, louder.  A snort.  The horse on the left passed gas.  The one on the right lowered its head in a doze.

Fuck!

The old man stepped into my line of sight.  “You would return to Capua?”

I nodded.

“And after that?”

I opened my mouth.  Nothing but searing pain emerged.  Fuck.

Then, in a flash of inspiration, I turned my arm, showing him my brand.

“You’re one of Batiatus’ men?”  He squinted at me in blatant doubt.  “But no gladiator.  Too small.”

I arched my brows and lifted my hands, still smeared and drying to the color of death and rust.

“Or maybe you are,” he allowed, wheezing at my tired smirk.  I offered him the reins.

He nodded, pulled himself up -- he’d dressed in a slaver’s tunic -- and settled beside me.

“I am called Libo,” the old man said.

From somewhere, I scraped a smile.  He then turned back and shouted to the others: “Assistance!  This wagon must be turned about!”

Two rescued slaves -- women -- came forward to lead the horses.  Other hands shoved the cart, wheels creaking in the faded ruts.  Once the cart was turned, the old man called out, “Climb in or make your own way.”

Everyone climbed back into the cart.  With a smart slap of the reins and an abrupt call -- “Hee-yah!” -- the horses startled into action.

I grinned.  It hurt.  But as every inch of me was varying depths of stinging, throbbing pain, it further reminded me that I yet lived.  I yet lived and I had a promise to keep.

We passed a few cargo wagons on the road.  Libo offered indistinct greeting as I turned my battered face away toward the landscape.  The sun was hot and I’d drawn tunic’s hood up, but I would not risk presenting a memorable sight.

Libo chatted about horses.  At times he spoke to the horses directly and their ears often twitched backward to catch the nuanced pitch of his voice.  Clearly, this man had been a stable hand for many years.  His experience and confidence a boon to my quest.  How foolish Libo’s Roman master had been to throw him away.  How fortunate for me that he’d been shoved into the same cart that I had.

“You normally abstain from speech?” Libo queried.  “Or does that mangled neck of yours still tongue?”

I smiled, appreciating his levity, and opened mouth.  Air gushed out as I made attempt to speak, but failed.  The clatter of the horses and wagon was too loud for any attempt at a whisper to be heard.  With a sigh, I gestured helplessly to my throat.

Libo nodded.  “A shame.  I would hear your tale, gladiator.”

And I would speak it.

“In the meantime, shall I tell you mine?”

I nodded and he began.

We arrived at familiar crossroads in late afternoon.  Spying the low structure of cistern entrance in the distance, I turned away and pointed Libo toward the rising road.  After a distance, I then gestured toward the narrow path that forked away, leading to ludus gate.  The lengthening shadows of the setting sun and the rocky walls would conceal wagon’s approach from errant gaze, but the latter would funnel our clamor to enemy ears.  Just before the walls of the square came into view, I motioned for Libo to halt.

I offered my arm in gratitude.

He took it.  “If we remain undiscovered here, we will wait until cover of darkness to continue on our way.”

“Gratitude,” I mouthed.

Libo did not wish the gods to aid my cause and I was doubly grateful.  I would prefer to remain unnoticed by the sight of Roman deities.

A pale, slender hand pushed the concealing tarp aside and a face leaned out over cart’s edge.  The woman who had been unable to silence her suffering and distress -- the woman who had drawn the slaver’s wrath and provided me with opportunity to strike -- smiled at me.

“Gratitude,” she whispered, smile happy but eyes sad.  Food, water, wine, hands free of shackles, and perhaps a little hope: not much, really.  Not when recapture loomed dauntingly real and the threat of the mines yet remained.  But she would not see them yet.  Not yet.

Back and buttocks stiff from the wooden bench and long ride, I limped-loped-jogged as quickly as my swollen throat and starved lungs would allow breath to pass.  Staggering up the last portion of incline and flattening myself against outer wall, I strained to catch sounds of activity from the yard: the barked commands of soldiers, the clatter of wooden bowls, and the groaning of benches bowed by bodies wearied with discontent.

I heard none of this.

Nor did I detect the shuffle-sweep-swish of footsteps or clash of metal.  Had I so grossly miscalculated the passage of time?  Had Spartacus already moved against Batiatus and fled the scene, leaving the house empty of life?

Gritting my teeth, baring a snarl, I quickened my pace.

No one stood at ludus’ gate.  I sidled close to the bars and slowly tilted my face to take in the sight.

Bodies.  The last rays of daylight touched upon armor, glowed against crumpled capes, gleamed across puddles of blood.

Nothing and no one moved in the complete silence.  My knees gave out.  I slid to the ground, wincing as the impact jarred my jangling hips and spine.  Fuck.  I was too late.  My fingers curled around one bar and I tilted my face against the metal.  Bruised flesh cried out; I recalled the bite of cage’s grate against my forehead, Duro’s soft snores, Agron’s penetrating gaze.

Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.

I drew a breath, almost coughing when my lungs expanded faster than air could fill them.

The scent of sand and blood.

But… not rot.

I breathed again, tasting the air, and discovered traces of human filth -- shit and piss -- but no decay.

Shuffling forward, I found myself within reach of a body.  A bare shoulder.  Hamilcar.  He’d been run through and left slumped against the wall.  I pressed a hand to his arm.  Flesh was yet warm, even in shadow.

A scream -- muffled by walls -- pulsed into the gathering night.

I was not too late.

Fuck the gods.

Or perhaps I would praise them for they had left me another gift.  My gaze fell to Hamilcar’s shackles -- a key stuck in the lock.  Reaching through the bars, I pried it free and scrambled toward the gate’s keyhole, jabbing the bit of iron inside and twisting it frantically until the squeal of metal announced success.

Slinking into the ludus, I locked the gate behind me, tucked key beneath wrist wrappings, and drew my sword.  My eyes scanned the yard.  Spotting two more fallen gladiators among the Romans, I paused.  A bald head -- not Rhaskos or Rabanus or Ortius or Leviticus, no -- it was one of our newly branded brothers.  Not far from him lay another, also new to the ludus.  I glanced toward Hamilcar, heart heavy.  I would grieve when time permitted.

The gathering shadows kindly led me to the threshold between villa and ludus.  A dead guard upon the floor, trampled.  Blood churned into the dust.

Up the steps I ascended, listening, watching.  The Brotherhood would not expect me.  I would be a target first and foremost.  Fuck.  The slaver’s clothes.  I should disrobe and--

An affronted shriek.  A boy -- young man.  Numerius?  The shit yet lived?

If my trembling body had been capable of speed, I would have sprinted in the direction of that cry.  As it was, I was forced to cling to the walls with each step, agony pulsing-gulping-grinding over me.  I glimpsed movement in shadows and bends of corridors.  Gladiators sweeping the house for cowering Romans.  Slaves emerging with hands raised, wary of falling victim to lingering bloodlust.

A crash and a shout of pain.  Yes, that was Numerius.  At whose hand?

Turning corner, I leaned around wall’s edge and peered through the doorway.

Numerius clawed at the single hand that gripped his throat, abject fear twisting his features in the face of a glowering German gladiator gone mad.

“Where is he?”  Agron.

“Tell us or we’ll peel you out of your skin, you pathetic fuck!”  Duro.

My belly quivered, a quaking that resonated through my chest and legs.  My Germans lived.  They fucking lived.  A smile pulled at my stinging, bruised flesh.

“What does it matter?” the Roman gargled.  “He is nothing.  He is--”

“You cocky little piss.  He is mine!”

I opened my mouth to--

“As I am his,” Agron rumbled, “and you, a Roman shit born absent fucking heart in chest, have no one.  Is it you who is nothing.”

Agron shoved the slender, squirming form against nearest wall, tilting sword’s tip to base of ribs.  

Numerius cried out, furious in his righteous arrogance.  His father would have been proud.  “You would kill a man who stands absent sword in hand?  What honor lies in such an act?”

Softer, quieter, deadlier, Agron snarled, “You speak of honor?  What do you know of it?  Nothing, or you would have seen it in Nasir.  Honor.  Courage.  Wit.  Strength.  Fire.”

I gaped.  This was the manner of man Agron cast gaze upon when his eyes focused on me?  This was Nasir?  Mention of neither form nor face nor skill, no aspect a noble Roman master would praise?

Breath jammed in my throat.  Unseeing, I scanned the room and corridor, braced against wall with sword in grasp.  I struggled to keep my eyes open as darkness danced and whorled.  Fuck, I needed my brothers.  I shifted to make entrance.  Wedging shoulder against a bloody hand print upon archway, I slumped over the threshold.

Duro and Agron were completely focused upon my patron.  Numerius’ eyes were wide, gleaming in the gloom.  Low-burning lamps and sputtering torches coughed faint light into the blood-smeared room.  There were bodies upon the floor.  Tangles of stained silk.  Lumps of flesh.

Agron growled, slammed his captive back against the wall as if to shake loose his tongue.

Duro tossed an arm wide in exasperation.  “If he will not speak with lips, let us cut open belly and squeeze words from lungs crushed in fucking fist!”

“The--the mines!” Numerius gasped out, horrified by Duro’s threat.  “He is sent to the mines.”

Duro froze.  Agron swelled with rage.

 _ ** **No,****_  I ached to say, to shout, to scream.  I _****ached.****_

And then the shadows of the opposite doorway shifted.  The gleam of sharp metal.  The swirl of a cloak.

_****Roman!** ** _

I was moving even as Duro looked up and spotted the attacker.  He made to shove his brother aside, an effort that would leave him no time to raise sword in defense.

My arm was too weak to counter blow, my body too slow to bridge the gap between the two of them.  I leaped from footing gained upon a fallen Roman’s back, threw myself against the guard’s side, fell.

My blade caught-tangled-wedged in Roman armor.  The man twisted-turned and pommel slipped from my grasp.  I grabbed for a handhold -- missed and stumbled and then hard, chilled blade thrust -- my body jerked, flesh going numb and then cold and, suddenly, fire sliced through my side.  Pure, undiluted _****agony!****_

FUCK!

A rasping scream -- my throat searing -- body crumpling, folding over pulsing, raw wound.  Gods, the _****pain.****_   I had thought myself already well-versed on the subject.  I was wrong.

Agron’s enraged bellow.  Duro’s shout of denial.

The slick _****swish-crack!****  _of metal slicing through skin and bone.  Not mine.

A wash of steaming Roman blood.

Hands upon my hair and shoulder, arms around me, a warm chest pressing against my side, a choked sob.  Agron.

“Nasir,” he panted, grasping me close, tugging filthy tunic fabric roughly away, pinching my mutilated flesh shut with strong fingers.  It hurt.  It hurt so fucking much and that was wrong because Agron would never hurt me.  Not with touch from his hands.  Never that.  But my bleary sight did not lie: I was in Agron’s arms.

He beamed-frowned-grinned-snarled-chanted: “Nasir -- Nasir -- Nasir.”

“Always,” I reminded him, mouthing soundlessly on a breath of fire, and his teary smile was unparalleled.

“Fuck the gods,” Duro breathed, shocked.

I forced my head up and cast my gaze toward the little Roman cowering in the corner.  I would have commanded, _****Give me a sword -- I would send him to the afterlife!****_   I would have, but I was still absent voice.  I fumbled for a weapon.  Any weapon.  Smeared blood over Agron’s knee and belly.  Teeth bared, I panted my fury and pain upon Numerius.

Agron’s arms flexed, holding me fast.

Duro laughed, wry and low.  “Can I kill the little fuck now?”

I nodded, strained with every dram of strength that had not yet bled out of me, and I watched, I listened, I savored the squeal of protest, the tear of flesh and fabric, the thick spill of guts splashing to the tiles, the lifeless thump of body following.

My eyes slid closed.  Agron shook me, woke welts and bruises and raw flesh to shriek in soundless rage.  “Speak, Nasir.”

The one thing he demanded, I could not give him.  Instead, I reached for his arm and squeezed, tunneling my fingernails into his flesh.

“Medicus!” Duro yelped suddenly.  “I go to fetch Medicus.”

“Raise fucking guard!” Agron called after him.

Into the silence, I gasped: “Sword.”

“Fuck.  Fuck the gods, Nasir.  You cannot leave me.”

Leave him?  No, never.  Imminent death stood not as the reason why I would have a weapon in my grasp; there might yet be more Romans and the only thing in Agron’s hands was me: my oozing wound and shaky skull.

I shook my head.  The feathery pass of fingers upon cheek and brow scraped and seared.  “No.  No voice,” I mouthed in poor attempt to explain even as my sense of time slipped, catching in the current of spilling blood, twisting left and right, forward and back.

“You are absent voice?” Agron wondered, bewildered.  “From other wounds?”

I nodded once.  “I yet live.”  I raked my nails over his skin.  He sucked in a harsh breath and I belatedly wondered if I had tracked over injury.  “You?” I exhaled, flames roaring up from my throat.

“Nothing worthy of note.”  Then he curled his bulk around me, warm and sweaty and tacky with drying blood but __alive,__  and pressed whispery, whiskered kisses to my brow.  I petted his arm, curled a hand over his shoulder, held on.

This was what I had suffered vengeful beating for.  This was what I had recklessly killed for.  This was what I had waded through agony for.

And, by the fucking gods, I would do it all a second time -- a third! -- just for this man’s embrace.

The sound of footsteps.  I tensed and Agron scooped up dropped sword with a grating hiss of metal upon blood-slicked tile.

“Agron!  Does our little brother yet live?” Duro called.

“Live?” Agron sputtered, aghast.  “He would yet fucking fight!”

Duro laughed, a product of abrupt relief rather than humor, and stepped into view with Donar.  “Medicus awaits in the ludus.  We must bring Nasir to the infirmary.”

Teeth gritted, I made effort to stand.  Agron clutched me in place.  “I beg of you.  Allow me this once.”

Perhaps if my body had not suffered so acutely before being struck with sword, I would have insisted on walking, but my strength was near spent.  I would save it for the battle ahead.

Resigned, I nodded against his chest.  He pressed a kiss of gratitude to the top of my head and lifted me from the spew of blood and flesh and waste upon the floor.

Torches, doorways, corridors blurred.  I glimpsed Spartacus’ face.  Blood splattered and eyes dull with exhaustion.

“Nasir, welcome back, brother.”

I managed a grunt.

Spartacus’ hand hovered near my shoulder but a snarl from Agron saw the gesture quickly aborted.  Instead, Spartacus inquired, “How did you make the journey?”

Fuck.  I had forgotten.  “Slaver’s wagon,” I breathed.  Inhaled.  “Ludus gate.”  Another attempt to gather air into lungs.  “Friend Libo.”

“I will see to it,” he spoke and then he was gone.

Familiar earthen corridors.  Cages, grates, cells.  Ah, home.  I almost laughed.  I closed eyes instead.

“He’s losing too much blood.  We must cauterize the wound.”

Of whom did Medicus speak?  I twitched.  Hands grasped mine.  I lifted eyelids.  Duro.  I frowned.  My lips moved: “What…?”

The scrape of steel, the whoosh of flame and crackle of coals.  The scent of smoke.

_****Agron?** ** _

Another hand upon my brow.  I looked over and there he stood, gazing at me with fear, fury, and ferocious affection.  “Apologies.  You’re to be branded a second time.”

No.  Fuck.  Anything but that.  The stench of smoldering flesh--again--I could not endure--!

“Your brothers stand with you.  Stay with us.”

To my shame, hot tears spilled from my eyes and chilled as they slid into my hair, trickled against my scalp.

Agron’s gaze lifted to Duro.  “Fetch lavender.”

“Lavender?” he blurted, sounding completely offended.

“Or any fucking fragrant thing!”

“Fragrant--oh.  The smell.  Right.”

Duro’s hands withdrew and, some moments later, a sprig of lavender touched my upper lip, resting beneath my nose.  Smoke and lavender.

“Take hold of my hands,” Duro instructed softly.  Someone large and gore-painted -- Donar? -- leaned over my thighs and knees.  Agron--where were his hands?  I could not feel their touch.  I could not find him!

And then his face was before me, somber and sweet.  Still speckled with dried blood.  He was gorgeous.  If he was mine, then I would be his.  Gladly.

“Bite down upon this.”  A stick of kindling nudged at my lips.  I obeyed, resisting the temptation to close eyes and hide in darkness.  “You must not call out,” Agron warned.  His fingers hovered below my chin.  “Your throat.”

I nodded once.

He cupped the side of my face.

I loved upon him with my gaze.

His frown tightened.  Twitched.  And I knew he’d heard me through my silence.

Then he pulled away and drew the glowing blade from the fire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the rebellion hadn’t started yet at the beginning of this chapter, slaver wagons were not heavily guarded. Nasir killed seven slavers (who are not trained soldiers). In Spartacus: Vengeance, episode 3, it looks like the slave wagon could have a military escort, but we’re not at that point yet in this fic.
> 
> I imagine Libo is the old man from the slave wagon (Spartacus: Vengeance, episode 3) who asks, “Are you Spartacus?”
> 
> So, this moment where Nasir charges in and changes the course of canon events -- again! -- was part of my plan from the first page of this series. This was gonna happen NO MATTER WHAT. I wasn't sure if it would happen in the villa or in the yard, but that was about all that was up in the air. Plenty of things in APMF took me by surprise -- happy accidents and characters/situations screaming to be given attention, but this moment was FATED. I just really hope you like how it turned out.


	3. Fever

 

The cisterns.

What would prove sanctuary for most would probably mean my death given this fucking sword wound.  Despite my own looming fate, I did not hesitate when Spartacus came to the infirmary to announce that all were ready to remove themselves from the fallen house of Batiatus.  It was time for me to do my part and deliver them the promise of concealment.

Medicus had poured a concoction down my raw throat to ease the pain and passage of breath.  Agron was now manning the bowl of water and cool cloth upon my neck to reduce swelling.  Medicus had sternly cautioned against overusing my voice, so I sketched a careful map upon a wax tablet describing the path that would take them to the cisterns and indicating the location of the entrance.

“Gratitude, Nasir.  When the others are settled, we will return and see you to safety.”

Spartacus stood and nodded to Agron and Duro.

I reached for the man’s forearm to halt his departure.  “Guards?” I checked on a weak croak.

“All dead.”

“All?”

“Glaber’s soldiers, Batiatus’ guards, and the men who accompanied guests.”

“Ashur?”

“I know not his fate.”

I considered this carefully.  “Gate unlocked?”

He nodded.  “When I went to meet with your companions, it was.”

Fuck.  With a shake of my head and a pointed glare, I drew a nod of comprehension from Spartacus.

“We will take an account of all.  Rest now and mind Medicus, brother.  Donar and I shall return before dawn.”

Hopefully before fever set in.  I sighed.

At the sound of retreating footsteps, Agron inched closer, tracing fingertips over what patches of skin had escaped injury: a line above one brow, the arch from one temple to the other along my hair, the ear in which I had once worn the ornamental piercing of a body slave.  In the plentiful torch light of the infirmary, my injuries were made clear, if muted.

Even now Agron glared at my throat, considering the dark bruises beneath damp cloth.  “Were that little Roman fuck not already dead…”

“I would also enjoy killing him again,” Duro agreed tersely.

Medicus re-entered the room from the adjoining herb closet and workroom, setting a sizable clay pot of poultice down upon the infirmary’s second elevated platform upon which Duro sat.  “Do not drop that.  It will speed in healing.  If we are fugitives, I cannot readily make more,” the man caustically complained.  “It must last for at least a month -- until the Syrian’s wound ceases draining and flesh closes.”

A month.  Maybe more.  I winced.

“And now that the blood remains within you, I would know your other ills, little Syrian.”

I glared at him.

He was unimpressed.  Given that he dealt with gladiators much larger and stronger than me -- men fueled by pain and rage -- on a regular basis, I could not realistically expect to intimidate the man.  That did not mean I would not make attempt.

“Were you fucked torn?”

I gaped at him.

Agron froze.  Duro looked up at me.

I shook my head.

“No one who has been has ever admitted to it,” the medicus further grouched, his hands reaching for the fastenings of my stolen trousers.

“Not fucked,” I insisted on a rough wheeze.  Though I hadn’t been permitted opportunity to examine every ache and pain on my body at leisure, I was well aware of how such a violation would feel.  In addition, since undertaking gladiatorial training within the ludus, I also knew the sensation of a merciless beating.  I had been beaten senseless by Numerius’ guards.  That and no more.

Medicus turned to Duro.  “Fetch a clean subligaria if you can find one.”

Fuck the gods.

To Agron, he ordered, “Get out.”

My lover balked.

“Entrance,” I explained.  I would have him stand guard while I endured examination.

He was less than pleased, but he leaned down to give me a soft kiss upon my split lips.  His had healed in my absence.  “Strike three times -- at any fucking thing -- and I will be at your side.”

Relieved with his quick thinking, I nodded and he moved to infirmary entrance.  I could see the line of his arm and elbow poking past wall’s edge.

Medicus was thorough and quick as he inspected me from scalp to soles.  I was not bothered by lying naked in the center of a room; the man’s insistence on disregarding my wishes was what I would not have my brothers witness.  Pride that Duro, Agron, and even the medicus recognized.

“A hard hit to your head,” Medicus assessed, thin fingers moving through my unbound hair.  “What do you recall of the last two days?”

My jaw clenched.

“Ah.  Apologies.  Let us make another attempt: did you lose consciousness during the beating?”

I nodded.

“How many hours before you regained senses?”

I counted on my fingers: perhaps forty hours.

“And they put you to cart for the mines regardless?  Opportunistic fucks.”  The man shook his head.  “It’s just as well you killed them; they won’t make that mistake again.”

I quirked a brow at his assumption that I had killed the slavers.

The medicus snorted.  “You don’t expect me to believe that a cart of slaves bound for the mines would prove worthy allies?”

They had.  Well, Libo had.  Afterward.

Medicus scoffed.  “You think I am blind?  I have seen you train.  You regularly topple all three German oafs.”

“Two of the German oafs can hear you, old man!” Duro called.  Evidently, he had completed his quest.  Agron’s arm shifted.  He was getting impatient.

“You think I give shit?” the medicus cantankerously shouted back.  “Another moment, barbarians.  I must check his ribs and he won’t thank you for watching him cry.”

Fuck crying.

“Fist your hands to indicate level of pain,” I was instructed.  “A loose fist means you would be capable of participating in drills.  A tight fist means you would hit me in the face.”

I bit back a laugh.  In the corridor, Agron huffed.  Duro snorted.

I was not laughing as he pressed at each and every angle of my rib cage -- or so it seemed -- but I did not weep, either.

“Yes, yes, you are a tough, little shit.  Let’s clothe you.  I’ve seen more than enough.”

I would have him know that my form was very pleasing.  Well, when it wasn’t misshapen with welts, oozing raw spots, and discolored with bruises.  Agron reentered with a subligaria-sized fold of cloth in his grasp.  He laid it over my hips before calling Duro in and I eyed the basin, oil pot, and strigil with abject joy.  Agron looked to Medicus, who merely waved for him to get on with it.

“Avoid the wound unless you wish to send him to the afterlife and prove my efforts wasted.”  The man retreated back to his herb closet.  Perhaps to pack what supplies would be needful.  I assumed he did not intend to remain and await discovery.

Agron was exceedingly gentle in cleaning the blood and grime from my skin, but the path of the strigil’s hard edge still burned and sizzled.  I made no sound.  My only reaction was a smile.

“He spoke truth,” Agron confided.  “You are a tough, stubborn shit.”

_****Is that not what drew you to me in the first place?** ** _

Ah, fuck.  I would have to tease him about it later.

Agron had just finished helping me wrap the subligaria when we heard footsteps approaching.  Spartacus?  So soon?  It was only just midnight.  If that.

“State your name!” Duro demanded.

“I am called Libo.  Spartacus asked me to cook porridge and deliver to… Nasir?  Is that how he is called?”

“And how do you know my brother Nasir?”

A telling pause; Libo was undoubtedly comparing his memory of me to the intimidating sight Duro presented.

“Unless I am mistaken, he stands as the man who saved us from the mines.”  The old man paused and, apparently, reconsidered, “At least for one more dawn.”

I tapped Agron’s arm and gestured for Libo to be allowed in.  Agron raised his voice: “He may enter.  You as well, nosy shit.”

Duro straddled the threshold, waving Libo through the doorway.  The old man appeared shaken -- at sight of battle’s aftermath or two large Germans looming in my vicinity?

“Ah--apologies,” he stuttered.  “I only brought two bowls.”

Agron held out his hand.  “Medicus will take one.  The skinny fuck could use it.”

“I am not deaf, you shit-for-brains!”

I panted out a laugh as gently as possible.  Fucking sword wound.

Without shifting from his seat, Agron took the bowl and set it aside on the counter within reach.  Clearly, he had no intention of leaving my side.  When he held out a hand for the second bowl, Libo passed it to him promptly.

As Agron stirred the gruel, inspecting it carefully, Libo’s gaze dropped to my wound.  “Fuck my ass,” he muttered.  “The moment I leave your side, you come to harm.”

I frowned at him, confused.

“Ah,” he muttered.  “We shared a cell the day previous.  You were brought in during the night and did not properly wake until we were put to cart on the second morning.  Do you not recall that?”

I did not.

Satisfied with the gruel’s appearance, Agron tasted it and then angled the bowl so I could reach the spoon.  He knew better than to try and feed me.

I dared a small bite and smiled when it slid down easily.  My stomach suddenly yawned cavernously wide and deep with hunger.

Duro shuffled in the doorway, frowning.  “And another fucking visitor.”

“That would be Zaria,” Libo answered.  “She volunteered to assist.”

Though I did not know which of the women she was, I admitted her with a roll of my eyes.  I swallowed another spoonful before I looked up.  Ah, yes.  The one who had spoken gratitude.  My heart sank even as heat infused my cheeks at the blatant adoration in her eyes.  The poor girl would be sorely disappointed to learn I was quite satisfied with my current -- my first and only -- lover.

I dared speech for the occasion: “Libo.  Zaria.  Gratitude.”

The old man grinned, showing gaps from a number of missing teeth.  Zaria blushed.  Agron arched a brow at her, then leveled a look at me.  I shrugged helplessly.  He smirked, leaned forward, and kissed me.  Just a delicate peck of lips, but it was more than sufficient in conveying meaning.

Agron sat back and said, “Duro, have Zaria serve you a portion.”

He nodded.  “I’ll bring a bowl for you as well, brother.”

I focused on my spoon, uninterested in gauging Zaria’s reaction.  I had not the patience for it.  Agron’s free hand smoothed my hair back from my forehead and the gesture was calming rather than possessive.

“Well, you’ve made your point, barbarian,” Libo huffed, crossing his skinny arms.

My lover looked his way in question.

“Must Nasir make the introductions?”

Again, I breathed a laugh.  Smacking his arm, I gestured for my lover to give his name.  He replied with a droll look before he stood and addressed the man who had aided me in my return: “I am Agron from the lands east of the Rhine.”  He nodded toward the door: “My brother Duro stood watch.”

Libo had retreated a step from the sight of Agron at full height and painted in gory, gladiatorial glory.  He hadn’t yet bathed; only his hands were clean.

“Libo of Hispania.”

“Horseman,” I added, saluting him with spoon before tapping the rim of the bowl that Agron still held in his grasp.

He immediately resumed his seat and presented the gruel at accommodating angle.  With flourish.  I huffed at his antics.  I would soon be insensate with fever; I would enjoy time with him now.  Insofar as I could with wound pulling incessantly at my attention.

Libo sank down onto the infirmary’s only other stool and sighed.  “It amazes.  So many questions I had wished to ask vanish.  You killed a man before my eyes with a _****pen****_ and I am absent fucking comment.”

“A pen?” Agron repeated, sounding as if he must have misheard the old man.

I nudged his hip and lifted my still-wrapped left wrist.  He set my nearly empty bowl aside and discovered the line of metal beneath the wrapping with a trailing fingertip.  “Fuck my ass,” he muttered working the improvised weapon free and staring at it.  “You killed a man with this little thing?”

Agron had never looked so fucking impressed.  Grinning, I waggled my brows.

Libo mimed the attack.  “A single jab to the throat.  Never in all my years…”  Words failed him.

Words failed Agron.  Momentarily.  But then he bragged: “I will greatly enjoy the look on Duro’s face when you tell of this.”

“This one solely?” Libo checked.  “Or the six others he felled absent aid?”

Well, it was possible for Agron to be even more impressed.  Amazing.

And yet.

My thoughts turned toward the slavers.  Seven men dead in the ditch.  Their families would not yet know their fate -- may never know their fate and--

Agron shifted closer, directed his words to me alone: “It is a heavy thing to rob a man of life.”

I agreed with a weak smile.

“Less so that of Roman shit,” he added lightly and, suddenly, I had no regrets.  We were now at war with Rome.  If we did not fight, they would crush us.  Their cause was one of pride and control.  Ours was life, choice, _****freedom.****_

“Libo, what offense saw you put to cart for the mines?” Agron suddenly asked and I could have kissed him for the effort.  Blunt and tactless though it was.

Duro returned with two bowls, one for himself and one for Agron.  Zaria also carried two, passing one to Libo.  Agron shouted at Medicus to remove his skinny ass from infirmary stores and eat fucking meal.  Zaria seemed alarmed by my lover’s brusque manner, but she smiled warmly when Agron scooped some of his serving into my bowl and then held it for me as I ate.

Stomach full, I dozed.  Woke to the sound of voices: Spartacus, Varro, and Donar.

“See yourselves to bath,” Varro was telling Agron and Duro.  “We stand guard.”

I blinked hazily.  Guard?  For what purpose?  Was I dangerous?

“I’ve nearly finished preparations,” the medicus announced.  “Where are we bound?”

“The cisterns of Capua,” Spartacus began and suddenly Medicus was shouting, delaying Agron and Duro’s departure.

“The cisterns!  Have you lost all fucking senses?  Why did I bother wasting time and effort when you stand determined to kill the man?”

Spartacus scowled.

Varro shifted into the medicus’ space.  Threatening.

Donar objected, “You bleat offense, old man.  Nasir is our brother!”

“And the filth of the cisterns will see him to the afterlife.  Keep him above ground or bury his body in it.”

“If Nasir does not enter the cisterns, then neither do we,” Duro insisted and Agron did not disagree.

Medicus sneered, “The mere _****sight****_  of you two will get him killed.  Barbarians.”

“We speak the common tongue well enough,” Agron insisted.

“And no one will notice your matted locks?”

The challenge was met with a beat of silence.

“Hair can be cut.”  That had sounded like Agron’s voice, but it couldn’t be.  He’d told me once that wearing his hair this way was customary of his people.  The only custom he could claim among Roman fucks who had taken his Germanic clothes and armor.  Even the tongue spoken east of the Rhine was forbidden within ludus walls.

“Fuck!” Duro spat.  “Agron--”

“It can’t be helped.  We’ll draw gazes wherever we go.”

“Well, what of Nasir?  His hair surpasses ours in length.”

“Yet in manner and form, he can pass for a trader or a pleasure slave or a whore on the street -- if provided cloak of adequate length and hood for concealment of scar.  You two are of a size to be noticed.  Yet I have never seen bodyguards of your make.  Not even Barca.”  Medicus shook his head.

Seeing Agron’s determined expression, Duro ungracefully relented.  “Goatfucking shit.  So be it.  Where do we go then?”

“Varro?” Spartacus inquired.  “Your domus in Capua?”

“Will be the first fucking place Glaber’s men look,” Donar bluntly argued and I agreed.

Spartacus calmly proposed, “Then we must wait for them to depart empty-handed before claiming sanctuary.”

However long that would require.  And even thereafter, risk would linger in the form of curious, neighborly gazes.

There was a long silence.  Libo looked to Zaria.  “We could take him in the wagon.  Into the mountains or…”

“The mountains.  How will he be fed?  Sheltered?”  Medicus pointed to the sword at Spartacus’ hip.  “Kill him now and be done with it.”

I shifted, winced at the flames licking across my side, and rasped, “Villa.”

Agron shouldered through the group to hunch down at my side.  I wanted him in bed beside me, but when I grabbed for his arm, he captured my hand in his.  His skin felt refreshingly cool.  I wanted to bathe myself in him.

“We cannot stay in the villa,” he carefully explained.

“Abandoned.”

He shook his head.

I clutched his arm.  “Marius--”

“The fuck will never touch you again.”

“His cousin,” I emphasized urgently.  I was not sure why I felt my meaning was of vital importance, but it did not matter.  Compelled to speak my mind, I pressed: “A villa.  Abandoned nearly four years.”

“Where?”

“I… from Marius’ villa, some hours south.”

“South.  Fuck the gods!” Duro complained.

“Do you have a better option?” Agron shouted back.

“He’s fucking delirious!”

“I have never been fucked delirious,” I declared, perhaps too loudly.

Someone giggled.  A woman.  Ah, Zaria.  I smiled even as I wondered what joke I’d missed.

Agron petted my face and I felt much better.  “Once you’ve recovered, I shall see it done,” he whispered into my ear.  I shivered.

“Varro?” Spartacus prompted.

“I owe Nasir my life,” the man solemnly intoned.

I gestured the debt void.  “I place it in your hands.  See to your wife and son, as your father would wish.”  I spoke from darkness, my eyes closed, burning.  Cool fingertips brushed over my eyelids.  They fluttered open and Agron sat back to allow Varro close.

“I shall never forget you, little man.”  He smirked gently.

I frowned.  “Don’t call me that.  And you will forget and live on.  Raise your son.  Love your wife.  Live and let the dice call someone else’s name.”

“You are a man worth knowing, Nasir.  My wife will never forgive me for not introducing you.”

“So be it,” I mumbled.  This time, when I closed my eyes, they remained shut.

Strange hissing snips.   _ ** **Hissssnip!  Hissssnip!****_

Strong arms and cool skin.

Dark muttering.  Cool air upon my side.  It burned.

Cold, damp cloth upon my brow, cheeks, chest.  I grasped and clawed my way toward the sensation, but it warmed, fading me back into the darkness.

Darkness.  It was the sum of my sweltering world.

“Nasir?”

“He yet fights.”

A whisper, a breath against my ear.  “Fucking fierce.”

Fierce.  Yes, I was.  I would be.  But first I would rest more, just a little more.  I welcomed unconsciousness.

Drifted.

Broke the surface of numbness on a gasp.

Pain.  Sharp and grinding.  My skin, my ribs, my side _****roared with fire.****_

“Drink, little brother.”  Water splashing against my lips.  A thin mattress and hard bench beneath my body.  Darkness, still.  Always.

_****“Return to my arms.”** ** _

_****“Always.”** ** _

Yet as much as I wanted to wrap myself up in Agron, I couldn’t.  The agony was a wall I had not the strength to topple.  Whenever the shackles of sweet slumber slid from me, I tried.

I _****tried.****_

“Does he wake?”

“I fucking hope so.  It’s been too long.”

“He was struck with fucking sword.  Saving your fucking life.  So don’t fucking--”

“And whose fucking life did I save, you nearsighted goat?”

My laugh tumbled me back into that place of eternal silence.

“...beg of you.  Open your eyes.”  Lips at the corner of my eye.  Beard stubble tangling in my lashes.  Agron.

_****Agron.** ** _

“Agron…”

“Nasir!?”

My handholds crumbled and I fell again.

“...you fucking doing for him?  He hasn’t regained senses in days!”

“It’s a fever, you witless fuck.  What do you expect?  He’s lasted longer in the back of this fucking wagon than he would have in the cisterns.”

The cisterns.   _ ** **Ashur knows about the cisterns.****_   “Ashur knows!” I gasped.

Hands bracing my face.  “What does Ashur know?”

“The magistrate is in the cisterns.”  I opened my eyes.

Agron frowned.  “What?”

“He knows not what he says.”  The medicus.  Sneering as usual.

I fought his doubt.  I did know the meaning of my words!  I did!  I grabbed for the wrists angled against my jaw.  “Ashur, Aulus, and I.  Took him.  Hid him.  The cisterns.  Numerius found him.  Batiatus’ plan.  Solonius stands innocent.”

“Fuck my ass.”  Medicus again.

“I believe you,” Agron vowed and I scanned his face.  His beard was thicker, eyes tired, hair shorn.  This was a bad dream.  Just a dream.  I sought another.

I woke to starlight.  Stars overhead and a pallet under my back and a methodical, cool touch of damp cloth upon my face, neck, chest.

Where was I?

I shifted, frowning.  Then winced at the flare of pain in my left side.  Sword wound.  Fuck.

Duro leaned over and grinned down at me.  “Are you with us, little brother?”

“You are the little brother,” I informed him grumpily, shoving his face away.  His breath was stale and I needed water.  “I will prove it on the sands -- or some equivalent -- come morning.”

“I look forward to it!”  He moved to stand.

I clamped onto his arm.  My grip was too weak.  It made my voice sharp: “Where do you go?”

“To fetch Agron.  You’re awake and talking something other than nonsense.  He will gut me if I do not wake him.”

“Let him sleep.”

“Close fucking mouth.”

I sighed, already composing my apology to Agron for his disrupted rest.  And then a large form was easing down beside me.  Fingers, hesitant in their touch, tracing the edge of my cheek.  “Nasir?” he breathed, voice shuddering with tremulous hope, and I felt wretched for daring to argue in favor of his rest.

“I return to you,” I told, my hands pushing greedily against his skin despite how heavy my arms felt.

“Do you truly?”  His tone was doubtful, a boy afraid to believe.

I smiled, endeared by his free-man ways.  “Always.”

He bit his lip.  As if that could halt the beaming grin that formed between his fur-lined dimples.  I reached up, dragging my nails through his lengthened beard.  He rolled his head between my hands like a dog begging for his ears to be scratched, exuberant and overjoyed.

His knuckles painted strokes over my temples.  He sighed with simple happiness: “Your fever has broken.”

“How long?”

“Three days.”

I fell back.  “Apologies--” I began.

“Shh.  None needed.  You return.  That’s all I ask.”

Letting out a breath, I studied what I could see of him in the starlight.

Starlight.

“Where are we?”

He shifted, arranging both of us comfortably.  “What do you remember from the infirmary?”

I scowled.  My impressions seemed as substantial as vague, faded dreams.  “Varro was there?”

“Yes.”  His hands shifted against my neck in soothing motions.  “You sent him to his wife and son with blessings.  He escapes ahead of pursuit.”

Good.  That was good, though I could barely remember our farewell.  If the gods favored him, our paths would likely never cross again, but I could not be sad for it.  Easily, I imagined the delicate beauty of his wife Aurelia -- many times he’d described her grace and devotion.  Words he would not ask the other gladiators to hear, words that would only remind them of the life that had been removed from choice.  But I had enjoyed his lovestruck musings, slowly learning the meaning behind the stirring of my own heart when my thoughts turned toward Agron.

Varro had taught me much of myself.  I regretted not meeting his wife.  Or his son.  Janus.  A quiet soul like his mother but with his father’s pale, curly hair--

I lunged, startling Agron as my fingers combed over his skull.  “Your hair is cut.”

“It is.”

Fuck.  Another regret, but a necessary act.  He drew enough attention from his size alone.  Outside of the arena, hair such as his would have made him too memorable.  “Duro’s as well?”

Softer, Agron answered, “Yes.”

I had no words to break.

“It will grow again,” he assured me and I turned my thoughts toward clarifying other blurry moments.

“I spoke of a… villa?”

“Abandoned,” he confirmed.

“Marius’ cousin, Reginus.  Dead four years this coming winter.  Yes, the villa is abandoned.”

“Well, it wasn’t labeled on Batiatus’ maps, and…”  He muttered sheepishly, “We’ve been lost for two days.”

“Fuck the gods.”

Agron giggled.

“A moment,” I begged suddenly.   _ ** **“We****_  have been lost?  You, Duro, me…?”

“Medicus, Libo, and Zaria.  We took the slaver wagon.”

“Lost two days and you’ve somehow avoided bandits on the road.  A fucking miracle,” I muttered.

Agron’s silence was weighted.

“Fuck.  Truly?”

He shrugged.  “A small number.  Easily dispatched.”

“Reveal your wounds.”

“I have none.”

“Duro?” I challenged, arching a brow.

“A blow to the head, but as that’s the most durable part of him, there’s no need for worry.”

“You are a shit older brother,” I grumped with resignation.

“I am a fantastic older brother,” he cheerfully protested.

“Gods save us.  Compared to most, yes, you are.”

I could feel his smile as he tucked his bulk snugly against my side.  “I have missed you,” he breathed, kissing my cheek, my jaw, my neck.

My skin no longer hurt.  It marvelously, wonderfully no longer hurt.  I curled an arm over his shoulders as he nuzzled my collarbone.

“Spartacus and the others?” I dared.

“Capua.  Crixus searches for Naevia.  Spartacus intends to defeat Glaber when the man returns from Rome.”

“Glaber was not present during uprising?”

Agron heaved a heavy breath.  Shook his head.  “He was absent and Ilithyia slipped from grasp.”

I found it doubtful that Ilithyia would dare to come face-to-face with Spartacus or any rebel.  Her husband, however, would foam at mouth in eagerness for it.  “Glaber will not return alone.”

“Donar stands with Spartacus.”

“My confidence is not inspired.”

“Then I will return to the city once we have located this fucking villa of yours.”  He lifted his head and teased, “Does that satisfy?”

I thumped him on the chin.  “Close mouth.”

“Opposite my intent,” he murmured, nudging at my lips with his own.

“Water first,” I pleaded.  “If there’s some to be had.”

There was.  I drank my fill, and then I kissed Agron until he moaned, nose nudging insistently against my cheek.  At which point, Duro loudly reminded all that I was recovering from a fucking sword wound and if Agron needed help finding his own cock he ought to seek needful lecture on the matter from someone knowledgeable of a man’s parts, such as Medicus.

Medicus retorted from cart interior, “No amount of instruction will make a tiny cock easier to find.”

“Fuck the gods!” Agron fumed, face buried in my chest.

“And would they be satisfied with performance?” Medicus jeered.

“Silence,” I ordered, “or you’ll witness a performance presently.”

Zaria snickered.  Libo told her to hush.  I did not need to press my palms to Agron’s heated face to know he blushed with mortification.  But I enjoyed it.

I nuzzled against his ear, cupped hand over my lips and whispered, “Words fueled by jealousy.  Your cock is a gift from the gods.”

He rumbled a laugh into my neck.  “Is that so?”

“I would have you between my thighs for demonstration.”

His entire body locked tight, then shuddered on a gasping sigh.  Words abandoned him.  I leaned into the sweet kisses he dropped upon my face, neck, shoulders, chest.  Like soft, summer rain.

Exhausted and soothed, I slept.

At dawn, I was greeted with bleary, tired smiles.  Hopeful smiles.  Until I confessed: “I must return to Marius’ villa.”

“You--fucking--say that again,” Duro choked out around his portion of dried meat and hard cheese.  He looked naked and ridiculous beneath his short, spiky hair.

“The villa I spoke of.  I only know the way from Marius’ lands.”  I lifted my palms, beseeching.

Medicus’ head dropped into his gnarled hands.  “Fuck my ass.”

Duro sniped, “Gratitude, but I must decline.”

“I was not speaking to you, pup.”

“Libo?” Duro checked, brows raised.

“I’m considering it,” the old horsemaster muttered cheekily.

Zaria laughed so hard she had to put out an arm to steady herself.

The moment of mirth was welcome, but it changed nothing.  We had to go back.

Late morning saw us to the short, forested cliff that overlooked a very familiar villa, orchard, vines, and grazing sheep.  Horses were pastured as well, which meant the cart was tucked away unused.

Marius was there within those walls.  Just there.  Being this close to the fuck without slicing him open from neck to navel--!  My fingers twitched and my skin writhed and the burn of the healing wound in my side was _****nothing****_  compared to my rage.

Agron slid a hand over my shoulder and back.  “One day.  I swear you will have him under your blade,” he vowed.

One day, but not today.  Damn the gods.

Agron’s solid warmth anchored my body as we stood within the shade and safety of the trees.  Yet my spirit resisted.  Writhed.  I winced, pressed my forearm to the bandages over my wound, and watched the place I had once, in blind ignorance, considered a home.  It was not and never had been.  It had been a cell.  A cage.  Having familiarized myself with those of Batiatus’ ludus, I could list many similarities.

It was foolish, I knew, but I lingered on the ledge, straining to catch a glimpse of friends.  Chadara came immediately to mind.  I was sure she yet endured.  Lovely and resourceful.  Even ruthless at times.  Calculating and careful.  Yet she had never put her own desires too far ahead of others’ -- a mark of true success among those under Roman service.  Friends were a necessity.  Kindness was a skill like any other.

I thought of Tilius and his silly stubs of hair.  He enjoyed showing off his lanky limbs retrieving items from high shelves that I could not reach.  “I am not for the mines today!” he would drawl, all too pleased with himself.

Calius, a hard worker.  Loyal to a fault.  I had never seen merest flicker of flame in him.  Not once.  Would a rebellion such as ours free him or crush him?

Andra, Moritus, Plaria, Aben, Jusix…

Mere days previous, I had freed ten men and women from seven slavers.  Why could I not save these men and women from a single Roman and his guards?  Fucking sword wound.

I sighed.  Agron flexed his arms around me and nuzzled my hair, waiting for me to look my fill and turn away.

I would.  In just a moment, I would--

The sound of an approaching wagon drew our attention.  Agron’s chin bumped against the top of my head as we both turned to track the noise.  A slaver wagon was pulling up from around the side of the villa.  The front gates opened.

Chadara and a young woman emerged.  A young woman dark of skin, her dress tattered and hair awkwardly shorn.

It couldn’t be…

“Naevia?” Agron breathed and I shivered hard.  We watched as she was visibly torn from Chadara’s arms and forced into the cart.  My wrists ached in sympathy for the shackles she would bear absent cloth to protect her delicate skin.

I shifted, cursed my biting-snarling wound, curled my hand around pommel of sword at hip -- the weapon I stubbornly wore despite inability to use it at present.  I had earned the right to wear a blade.  I would not spend a single day with hand absent weapon.  Not if presented choice.

Agron’s fingers covered mine.  “There are three guards.  Duro and I will see to them.”

No.  This was not his fight.  Neither of them held love for Crixus.  Well, neither did I for that matter, but if I had not placed myself between Varro and Spartacus’ sword, I might have yet lived here.  I might have been able to help her before Marius had laid hand upon her and--

I could not permit myself to think beyond that.

“For what purpose would you do this?” I pressed, turning carefully in his arms, ignoring the sight of the villa gates closing and Chadara disappearing within, reeled back to her charge.

Agron hunched down, bringing us level -- gaze, mouth, intent.  “Because it could have been you.”

I swallowed.  “It was not.”

“That does not make our intent to free her less right.”

Fuck the gods.  This man.  It was long past time for me to request lessons in German tongue from Duro.  I would learn how to speak my heart to my lover as he so easily spoke his to me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character Zaria is my embellishment on the young woman whose distress irritates the slaver in the wagon before the rebels attack (Spartacus: Vengeance, Episode 3, The Greater Good).
> 
> Also, a note about filth and medicinal technology. I try not to be too clear on this because a lot of concepts (such as healthy hygiene) are hit-and-miss in ancient Rome. While, yes, there were bathhouses and public toilets, it’s unclear how often the water was changed in the baths and I’ve heard that the sponge used to wipe one’s derriere after defecating was shared with any and all past-current-future seatmates. BUT, let’s assume that Medicus has realized over the course of his career that wounds can become infected (“corrupted”) by all kinds of things. The cisterns holds a lot of shit to avoid (um, literally, perhaps).
> 
> I read on the Spartacus Wiki that, originally, the ludus medicus died in the cisterns of dysentery (this occurred off-screen). In this AU, he manages to extend his life (unwittingly) by tagging along with Nasir (bitching the whole time about how Agron and Duro are gonna end up getting them all killed, I AM SURE… because I’m 90% positive that Medicus is some distant relative of Severus Snape). *ahem* Regardless, I took his dialog and mannerisms from the series and attempted to realistically expand upon them… and I ended up liking the guy a lot more than I thought I would.


	4. The Abandoned Villa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: (very NON-explicit) mention of past NCS (Nasir's past), (non-explicit) SEXYTIMES, GORE (butchering meat)

 

Sobs.

I tugged Zaria aside as she moved to enter the back of the wagon and greet the woman therein.  The woman who wept quietly despite the sounds of battle and death that had briefly but unmistakably erupted on this lonely stretch of road.  The perfect place for an ambush.  I had set our trap, assigning Libo and Zaria to hurry ahead of cart to provide distraction while Duro and Agron would launch attack from rear.

“You favor clever strategy,” Agron had approved with a bright grin and a helpless show of spittle.  “Fuck the man from behind!”

Duro had rolled his eyes and punched his brother’s shoulder.  “I know not if I look forward to Nasir’s recovery.  Your obsession with fucking may fade, but the noise will surely deny me peaceful night’s rest.”

Agron’s smile had flopped into a dark scowl.  “I made no complaint when you fucked your way through fort and village.”

“You were too exhausted from sparring with the boys you could have charmed if you had removed head from ass and heeded my methods,” Duro had needled.

Scrubbing hand over face to erase my smile, I’d prompted: “Wagon approaches…?”

Agron had shoved Duro’s shoulder.  “Come, brother, and heed _****my****_  methods.”

“You’re fortunate Nasir is fond of brutes and bloodshed.”

Well.  Duro’s parting words had not been untrue, though perhaps lacking in additional adornment: I was fond of brutes possessed of gentle hands, dimpled grin, and courageous heart; I was fond of Roman blood shed.  The combination of all I found irresistible.

Medicus had kept a bony hand on my arm throughout the attack.

And now the battle was won.  We had a second wagon.  Two additional horses.  Three sets of weapons and armor.  Some recently baked bread and decent wine.  And a young woman who may be inconsolable in her distress.

Offering shackles key to Zaria, I said, “Take care.  She has suffered much for the sake of love.”

“Love?”  Zaria paused, her eyes seeking answers from me.  Perhaps it was because I had acted as savior, or perhaps because I commanded absent thought -- did I still cling to the habits of a body slave? -- or perhaps because I sometimes sensed her wistful gaze when Agron and I stood or sat together in comfortable companionship.  Regardless, she tended to look to me for answers.  Perhaps, one day, I would give her one of worth.

“Her lover, a gladiator from Gallia by name of Crixus.  He searches for her and I would bring them together, but it will take time.”  I glanced toward the cart.  “Sit with her?” I requested.  “Speak if she finds comfort in words.  Break none if she prefers silence.  Above all else, we will keep her safe.”

Zaria nodded, confidence rising to fill her gaze with purpose.  She swore, “I will look after her as a sister.”

“Gratitude.”

“Nasir,” she replied, her tone twisted with humor and sadness, “I would do for her what you have done for me--”  She smiled.  “--brother.”

Her words pleased me more than I could say, so I said nothing and nodded her toward the wagon.  She unlatched the wooden door and slowly pulled herself up and inside.  The murmur of her voice soon followed.  Naevia yet wept, but Zaria remained.

I stood lookout until Libo brought our wagon around.  He was tying the reins of our newly acquired horses to the back of slaver’s cart when Agron and Duro emerged from the wood, bodies of the guards hidden from casual glance and discerning nose.  If fortune favored us, the scavengers would mangle their forms too badly for them to be recognized before they were discovered.

My brothers tossed the looted armor and weapons into the slaver’s cart.

I remembered the way to Reginus’ villa.  We arrived before sunset.  It was still abandoned.

Naevia yet wept.

Surprisingly, Medicus stuck out his hands for both his evening portion and hers.  I watched as he approached Zaria and her charge, crouched, spoke gently and quietly.  When Naevia looked up, recognition lit her gaze and she threw her arms around him.  He patted her back as she sobbed anew -- great, body-wracking sobs -- and she smiled as he inspected her forehead and cheek.  The beating she had received from Lucretia was long healed, but it was never too late to tend a wound.

That night, as Agron fetched our bedding from cart, I pulled Duro aside and blurted, “How do people east of the Rhine express love?  I would learn the words.”

Duro blinked at me, then grinned, then giggled evilly.  “Knowing who you would say them to, I am tempted to teach you words to call him a shit-eating swine cunt.”

“Very well.”  But I was not without threats of my own.  “I shall tell him of my affections in other ways… that may echo along stone corridors.  Well into the night.”

He glared.  “You are fucking irritating.”

“Then satisfy my request and I shall see myself from sight.”

With a roll of eyes and a pronounced blush to cheek, he muttered the words I’d requested.  I repeated them.  He offered correction, still unable to meet my gaze.

“Gratitude, Duro.”

“None required.  Just… mind the wound.”

Which wound he did not specify, though I suspected he was not only referring to the one yet carrying stitches in my side.  With a nod, I moved to rejoin Agron but paused.

“You realize,” I haltingly confided, “if you did teach me to call your brother a shit-eating swine cunt, he would be just as overjoyed.”

There was a moment of stunned silence and then Duro threw back his head and laughed.  “Fuck.  You speak truth.”

Indeed I did.  Whether I offered Agron words of love or brotherly insult in his own tongue, he would know who had taught me.  He would easily assume what intent had driven me to request translation in the first place.  He would infer what meaning I would wish to utter in his tongue that I would not seek directly from him.  Regardless, my purpose would be achieved.

Out of consideration for Naevia, who shared a pallet with Zaria in the shambled slave quarters, and out of respect for Duro who preferred to act as guard and sleep across their threshold -- I even thought of Libo, bedded down in the stables, and Medicus, who was inclined to be near the unlit kitchen hearth -- I took Agron by the hand and pulled him into an alcove along the garden that, from my years of living in such a villa, I knew would neither echo nor amplify words.

“I would sleep here tonight,” I whispered against his lips.  “Beside you.”

He did not ask my reasons.  He smiled, pressed a kiss to my lips, and fetched our pallet.  I helped him arrange it, moving slowly and carefully, and when it was done, I shuffled up against his chest, stopping him from lying down.

Kneeling, he smiled a question at me.

I answered with the words Duro had taught to me.

Agron gaped and I ran my fingers through his short hair, tugging and massaging his scalp.

I said the words a second time, breathing them against his slack lips, and then I admitted ruefully, “Perhaps Duro made good on his threat to teach me words to call you a shit-eating swine cunt, but--”

His mouth, suddenly hungry and hotter than I remembered, stole all breath from my lungs.  I clutched him close, desired him completely, kissed him back with every dirty trick and ferocious response I was capable of.

He was the one to pull back, though both of us were panting.

“You chose this place for its silence?” he checked.

I nodded.  “Our words are only for each other.”

“And other sounds?”  His eyes were the darkest I had ever seen them.

“Those as well,” I told his trembling, swollen lips.

He crouched down, nibbling along my jaw toward ear.  “Then let me hear them all.”

Strong arms slid beneath my coat and my hands dived beneath his cloak -- garments made for us by Zaria as she had ridden in wagon’s cart while I had burned with fever.  I slid astride Agron’s thighs -- a position I was becoming more and more fond of; the feel of my legs around his hips never failed to rob him of sense and he was gloriously unleashed every time.

I held on tightly as he laid me down, arched his torso over me, weight balanced on his hands and knees and set mouth to purpose.  And what purpose.  What sweet, hot, wantonly single-minded purpose.  He murmured to me in German, panting and gasping and I could hear his entire being -- his very heart -- encapsulated in his voice though I knew not his words.

I confessed my ignorance.

He smiled against the palm of my hand, opened his eyes, his gaze, and his spirit to me.  “I happily explain.”

He did.

Agron was undeterred by my body’s stubborn resistance to the pleasure he offered.  I was yet injured and until I was well again, my cock would insist on rest.  His, however, required no such slumber.  I reached for him, tugging at his subligaria, but he shifted his hips out of my grasp.

Collecting my hands, he interlaced our fingers.  Rocked his mouth against mine for a brief, lusty brush of tongues.  Traced the ridge of my nose with the tip of his.  Pressed our foreheads together.

“This,” he told, tone soft and aching, “you.  You welcome my touch.  That’s all I require.”

_****“Return to my arms.”** ** _

I had never searched for deeper meaning in his words, but it was there: Agron would hold me in his arms as a man held his own heart.  He would hold me because I _****was****_  his heart.

Well.  I supposed that was only fair.  After all, he was mine.

He was mine.

The next morning, Agron rose from our bed with lingering caresses, teasing kisses, and fervent gaze before seeking our meals… but it was Zaria who delivered the food to my hands.

She eyed the whisker burn on my neck and smiled to herself, eyes lowered and shoulders hunched to press the laughter down into her belly.  It was a trick I had also learned to employ when silence was preferable.

That was not so in this place.

“You are a free woman.  Laugh as you wish,” I invited dryly and she did.  Briefly.

But then she sobered and leaned against nearby pillar, regarding the overgrown peristylium.  It had once been a fine garden, but the grass stood waist high now.  “I… for a time, I feared for you.”  At my questioning look, she stuttered, “Ag-Agron is… huge and blunt and merciless with sword in hand…”

She shook her head and I smiled.  He was those things, but he stood as much more.  Zaria had seen this as well and her next words proved it so: “And then I thought I might envy you.  You and Agron.  Love.”

“No longer?” I prompted, suspecting the direction of her thoughts.

“Naevia,” she sighed, an explanation and a lament.

“When Naevia is once again in the arms of her Crixus, you will see her -- and your faith -- restored.”

“Is it such a thing?  Love?”

I had never reached out to Zaria with touch.  House slaves were often required to suffer the touch of others.  I would never force contact upon anyone outside of battle.  Here stood yet another difference between me and my Germans, who would not be the boisterous, spirited men they were without benefit of touch.

Oh how the Romans had twisted such a simple, human act into one of degradation.

The inclination toward friendly touch was present in me: I would offer my hand to Zaria -- her arms dangled at her sides, neither defensively crossed nor suggestively folded at base of spine -- but I kept my grip upon bowl and spoon and reached out with words.  Words were easier for me.  Perhaps they always would be.

“Zaria.”  When she looked toward me, I informed, “Love is everything.  When it blesses you, you will understand my meaning.”

She grinned sadly.  “I fear that day.”

“Rightly so.  It will change you.”  I thought of the man I had become once my heart had opened to Agron.  I thought of the man I was yet becoming.  “Just, remember,” I advised, “you are given choice now.  No collar rests upon neck absent your consent.”

“I have never not known its weight.”  Her fingers brushed against her throat.  “And yet choice stands as no light burden.”

“Your friends will help you shoulder it.”

Her smile returned, bright and lovely, and I answered it with something that felt like pride.  If this young woman, once condemned and woeful, could regain spirit, surely there were more.  Hundreds -- thousands -- more who possessed such strength.

_****“If all house slaves stood as fierce as you, Rome would fucking crumble.”** ** _

Duro’s words.

Words… or prophecy?

I tasted the idea, sampled its possibility, and immediately craved that future.

Across the neglected garden, Duro and Agron emerged from corridor, heads bent and lips moving with whispers.  As they drew closer, I realized they spoke in their native tongue.  Conferred.

“Do not exclude a bother who has yet to learn your words,” I scolded.

Zaria straightened.

Duro offered her a bowl.  “You’ve not yet eaten.”

“Gratitude.”  She took it automatically, her expression falling neutral in the manner of one who does not know what will be demanded in exchange for unsolicited kindness.

Fuck.  I would have to break words with Duro on this.

For now, I focused on Agron’s obstinate expression and gritted my teeth.  “Fucking speak it,” I growled.  It was not I who needed to hear the words; it was my lover who needed to break them.

“Libo, Duro, and I are for Capua.  To bring Spartacus, Crixus, and the others here to sanctuary.”

“We have not provisions for so large a group,” I pointed out, testing his forethought.

“To be taken from villas we pass by.”

My eyes narrowed.  “Only provisions?  You would leave the slaves destitute in houses filled with Roman blood?”

“Fuck,” he groused.  “You know my meaning.”

“And Spartacus’ mind.”

Agron nodded.  “In your absence, he spoke of liberating all under Rome’s control.”

I shook my head.  Liberated house slaves may prove fierce fighters, yes, but they would require training and much time.  How much time would we be given before Glaber struck?  “We need fighting men,” I conceded pragmatically.

Agron glanced at Duro who nodded for Zaria to accompany him toward the kitchen.  “Medicus makes attempt to clean a storeroom for herbs.  Naevia assists, but it is no small task.”

“I will lend hands,” she offered.

Agron waited until they’d disappeared around the corner to confide, “We are not far from Vesuvius.  It offers good position to strike the port city of Neapolis, where slaver ships regularly dock, hulls filled with men captured in foreign wars.  Like Duro and I were.  A lifetime ago.”

A lifetime ago, I had been a body slave.  Yes, he and I shared that upheaval, that moment when a man’s life was forever changed.

I nodded.  “Warriors readily turned against Rome for our cause.”

He agreed.

Drawing a breath, I nearly gave voice to thoughts: did we not plan to use the slaves of Rome for our own ends, not unlike the Romans themselves?  But, no.  This was different.  We would liberate warriors who dreamed of laying siege to this great, swollen Republic.  We would give them opportunity to strike at the heart of their enemy.  If they declined, they would be free to make their own way, but I doubted any would refuse.  No one thirsting for either vengeance or victory would turn away from such a chance.

I would not.  Neither would Agron.  In this we were also of a like mind.

Noting the narrow space between us, I shifted with a wince to bring our arms into contact.  Seeing my effort, he slid closer with a guilty expression.

He would never make a proper house slave.  Not with his heart and thoughts so openly displayed.

“What you speak of is dangerous,” I observed.  “I would be at your side.  When do we make for Capua?”

“No.”

“Yes.  Are you not mine?  I would look after you.  Such is my charge, German.”

A grin tugged at his lips.  He leaned his forehead against mine.  “Fucking Syrian.”

“Stay alive and one day, yes, you may.”

He huffed a helpless laugh.

“I go with you,” I insisted.

“Not this time.”  He leaned back far enough to palm my cheek.  His gaze begged me to agree as he rasped, “This time you stay, and I go.”

This time.  Well.  I appreciated that he did not cite the obvious: I was in no position to argue.  Not with force, at least.  Fucking Roman sword wound.

Yet I was not absent weapon.  My words -- sharp and precise -- could surely see me at his side… where I would carry a sword I could not wield and Agron would be required to defend me in times of attack.  Given choice, I would not place such a charge upon his shoulders.

With a sigh, I capitulated: “When?”  My throat suddenly closed, locked and twisted tight and it was just as well no further words were necessary.

Agron appeared equally hindered; he pushed each word out with visible effort: “The dawn following next.  Duro and I will hunt tomorrow morning.”

Hunt.  Because it might be weeks before they would return.  If they stopped at each villa to gather food and supplies and hands to carry them… there were many villas between here and Capua.

“Will you pay visit to Marius?”

“So stands my intent.”

I would have liked to watch the rat-faced fuck die.  Perhaps Naevia would also care for the privilege.  However.  I would have to be satisfied knowing he was dead.  It mattered not who robbed the fucking Roman shit of life.  I found a smile as Agron’s fingers touched my chin, lifting my gaze.

I gave my blessing: “Kill many Romans.”

“I will return to your arms,” he replied, offering me a soft kiss to accompany his promise.

The day was spent with my brothers while Libo scouted the surrounding land on horseback and Medicus put the kitchen and stores in order with aid of Naevia and Zaria.  Duro and Agron chose a room that would prove adequately defensible against attack: the villa bath.

“There is no indication that Romans have followed us,” I argued.

“No shortage of thieves, though,” Duro pointed out and I allowed that it was best to be prepared.

We turned the bathing room into an armory.  I cleaned weapons and maintained stolen armor, sorting pieces by size and setting aside those that could be adjusted to fit me.  If it would fit me, it might also provide some measure of protection for Naevia, Zaria, and Medicus.

The raised stone bath in the center of the room provided cover from attack, and the opening in the ceiling became an escape route once a ladder was fashioned.  It was a peculiar arrangement -- one that Agron and Duro had learned to make in Germania.  The knots that held the rungs in place could be pulled out with one strong yank upon dangling end of rope, which unfurled at ladder’s top.

“Once ass is upon roof,” Duro began and then demonstrated by tugging the knots open in seamless succession, “the Roman shits will have to burn the house down to get to you.”

“And by then, you would be gone -- over wall and into woods,” Agron flatly ordered.

I nodded in agreement.

We did not speak of the journey they would take, but when Agron lay down with me that night, I held onto him tightly.

He woke me before dawn with reminder of his hunt with Duro.  They returned at noon with a boar.  Agron and I butchered it while Duro took the medicus, Naevia, and Zaria out to the woods to set snares.  We did not dare risk a fire for smoking the meat, but there was salt remaining -- dusty and solidified -- caked in the corners of the stone bin of the cellar.

“My predecessor would have ordered this emptied,” I remarked as we salted strips of meat.  “Fortunately for us, he did not perform final inspection.”

“Your predecessor?” Agron inquired, his tone strangely stilted; he was both curious and hesitant to know of my life before.

“Yes.  It was here, following Reginus’ death, that I demonstrated my skill in household management.”  As the youngest male slave of good health and education, I had been charged with the removal of any furniture of value, assessing worth, and arranging transport of unwanted items to market for sale.  Marius had been so pleased with my efforts that I had been promptly promoted to body slave.

“What became of the man?  Your predecessor?”

I looked up and found Agron bracing himself.  I answered: “The mines.”  Where all body slaves of powerful Romans go at the end of their usefulness… if they are not put to immediate death.  “The knowledge gained working closely with a dominus, of him and his business -- it is confidential.”

Agron stared hard at his bloody, salted hands.  I could guess what he wished to know.  I would not make him ask.

“I could have refused, but being a body slave offers greater protection.  Position.  Respect.”  I let out a long breath.  “I knew what would become of the man who held post before me.  The same fate I would fall to.”

“Protection,” Agron quietly repeated.  “It was worth the price you would be made to pay?”

I met his gaze.  “Yes.”

He held so many questions.

I made attempt to answer some of them: “Eight months, I served as a common house slave of a noble domus.  There were many guests.  A few celebrations.  My training had been thorough -- a kindness provided by my first dominus before I was purchased by Marius.  I could avoid injury from rough treatment, but…”  I paused.  “Eight months is a very long time--”  Drew breath, steadied self.  “--to endure attentions I had never received before--”

Agron lurched forward, reaching across the stone table where we worked and his hands smoothed over mine from wrists to palms to knuckles.  He held me in a grasp I had come to recognize even in my sleep.

“Never again,” he vowed, intensity drawing his expression taut and voice tight.  “Not by me or any other man.”

Or woman.  But I would not add to his imaginings, which were already bad enough.

I forced the thoughts away with a smile.  “These days, I am attended most aptly--”  I felt my expression soften with genuine memory.  “--by a lover possessed of a smile bright enough to banish shadow, and passion hot enough to burn shades to ash.  Have you ever met such a man?” I teased.

He grinned.  Dimpled.  Beamed.  “I have,” he replied, gaze upon me.

That night, I surprised Agron with request: “I would take rest with my brothers.”

And I enjoyed the lecture Duro was given on not jarring me in his sleep.  We laid our pallets alongside one another and it was as that night in the cage when my forgotten past had risen, answering the reek of burning flesh, and I’d found myself wrapped up in their long, heavy arms, and bracketed by strong legs, listening to the sounds of their breaths.

Duro rose before dawn on excuse of assisting Libo with horses and cart.  I pulled Agron against me, loving him with lips and hands.  I had no words except for the ones that hailed from east of the Rhine.  I breathed them into one ear, then the other.  Against lips and throat and hands that cradled my cheeks, jaw, neck.

He answered my frantic whispers with a single look illuminated by light of rising sun.  “To set eyes again upon my heart,” he said simply, “I would risk all for such a thing.”

His devotion tore me apart.  His inherent promise held me together.  I ached in the wake of him.

Watching them leave -- watching my brothers and my friend Libo leave -- stood as the most difficult thing I had yet done.  Becoming a gladiator.  Battling Gordianus.  Killing slavers.  I suddenly understood why I had succeeded: it was in my nature to fight.

It was not in my nature to do nothing.

But that was what was required, so I stood at the gate, watching an old man in slaver’s garb and two guards dressed in Roman armor take to the road to Capua.

I could not close the gate until they had disappeared from sight.

Though Naevia had served as body slave to her domina, she had never managed a household.  Neither Zaria nor Medicus had held similar position.  The mantle settled around my shoulders easily.  Too easily.

It wasn’t until the end of the sixth day when Zaria found me sitting upon the portico, staring blankly at the closed gate, that I realized what had happened.

“I think I know your meaning now,” she whispered, not looking my way.  I did not have the energy to look hers.  “The absence of the one you love -- it takes all from…”  She paused to draw careful breath.  “It takes all.”

“Everything,” I agreed.  My voice echoed in my own ears -- flat, indifferent, empty -- and I recognized it: Tiberius.

I had become Tiberius.

I shuddered and was thankful for the stinging, throbbing pain in my side.  Proof that I had lived as another man, that I could be another man, that Nasir was yet within me.  I started to push Tiberius away, but Nasir raged at being left behind and I did not have the strength to survive his fire.

A bit desperately, I counted up the days: it would take a full day’s travel, from dawn to dusk and then some, to reach Capua by wagon; if Spartacus and the others yet took refuge in the cisterns, Agron and Duro would most likely choose to greet them the morning of the second day; Crixus would probably insist on leaving at dawn of the third -- if not before -- if he believed the news of Naevia’s rescue.

With Libo guiding the way, they would have to gather provisions somewhere, perhaps at a villa -- though what villa could be taken by one former champion and an elderly man?  No, they would move with a larger group at first, acquire supplies for the wagon, and then set wagon wheels to rutted, winding road.

So, if everything had gone smoothly, if they hadn’t taken a wrong turn or broken a wheel or been set upon by thieves or slavers or fucking Romans, then the sound of a wagon and coded knock upon gate would come tonight.  Or on the morrow.  Soon.  Very soon.  I would not yet see Agron or Duro, but I would have news of them.  News was something.  At this point, my aching heart and weary mind would gladly accept anything.

I waited and listened to the silence until slumber took me.

Medicus shook me awake with a round of creative threats and customary cursing.  He bullied me onto the kitchen table to check my wound even as I declared, “You would be bored to fucking tears if not for me.”

He cackled.  “You press fortune, house slave.”

“Fuck ass on a pike, you piss.  I stand a gladiator.”

The medicus glanced up and smirked at my glare.  “Of course you do, little man.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I hissed and my fury only cheered the man more.  I decided I would not consider too deeply why that might be.  Instead, I started counting down to setting out on my own.  I would give my brothers two more days; I would depart at dawn on the third and seek them myself.

When I spied Naevia and Zaria chatting upon the portico, hands idle, I thrust a pair of sheathed knives into their grasp.

“Let us use what is left of the morning.  I would show you how to separate a man from his cock.”

“We have no Roman men to practice on,” Naevia objected playfully, surprising a smile out of me.

“If the gods are kind, they will send us some,” I teased back.

Zaria gulped and a part of me commiserated: Romans would come regardless of the will of the gods.  Still, it was best to make a jest of it.  When the noon sun had passed, Naevia and Zaria left to check the snares, knives belted to waist.

“You fancy yourself Doctore of this pathetic ludus?” Medicus drawled.

“Shall I haul you out onto the sand next?”

He took a step back, hands raised.  “Snarl but a little more and make your gladiator proud.”

What nonsense.  Agron was already proud of me.  For many things beyond a pithy snarl.

The snares yielded two hares, one little more than a kit, but the meat was welcome and nothing was wasted.  As we cleaned our bowls, the sun still an hour from setting, I heard the distinctive roll and creak of an approaching wagon.  Hoof beats.

Medicus muttered, “Fortunate that we’ve already enjoyed our portions.”

“Indeed,” I answered distractedly.  “But I seek confirmation.  Do not open gate absent signal.”

Unwilling to wait so long, I hurried to the bathroom and scaled the ladder.  Balanced upon rooftop tiles, I peered toward the arriving wagon.

Those were not the horses that Libo had harnessed to cart, yet I knew them.  I knew those geldings as I knew the wagon itself.  And the six armored men accompanying their progress -- I knew the swagger and gait of each: these men had never been gladiators of Batiatus’ ludus.

There would be no signal coming.

I rushed back into the villa.  Hurrying to the kitchen, I ordered, “Onto the roof!  Take what water and food is at hand and see yourselves to the roof.  Now!”

“To what end?” Medicus demanded.

“To prepare for battle,” I answered and spoke to Naevia: “Our prayers are answered.  Romans arrive at the gate.”

“Romans?” Zaria squeaked.

Naevia reached for knife’s handle.  “How do you know this?  They may be Crixus and Agron in disguise.”

Such a thing was possible; my eyes may have deceived me, but-- “I know those horses, cart, and uniforms.”

Reaching for a water skin and grabbing the blanket from his pallet, Medicus asked, “To whom do they belong, then?”

I grinned.  “My former dominus.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was considering this particular AU!Nasir, it occurred to me that his quick transition to a warrior could be due to suddenly being thrust into the world of the Roman elite. He did not grow up in an atmosphere of debauchery (in this fic) and led a relatively sheltered (but, of course, limited) life at the home of Varro’s father. No wonder Nasir is so angry at Romans (like Numerius and Marius).
> 
> On the subject of Nasir’s “education in fucking” (and that he views it as a kindness), I’m thinking of Oenomaus’ story. When Titus Batiatus buys Oenomaus from the Pit, the owner offers to have Oenomaus educated on how to fuck and, I imagine that whoever would have been his “teacher” would have made the experience very unpleasant. Nasir avoids this fate: I imagine that Varro’s father hired a whore to show Nasir the ropes and specifically asked that Nasir be treated well. Given the circumstances, it really was a "kindness." (I don’t even want to think about how Nasir could have suffered if he’d ended up in a new domus with NO preparation whatsoever.)
> 
> While I’m thinking of it, I’ll mention this: I’m purposefully vague on Nasir’s age. (And Duro and Agron’s, come to think of it.) Mostly because any number I throw out there would be skewed -- in a time when life expectancy was about 40 years, I think “adulthood” would be measured by experience and capability rather than a simple number.
> 
> In Vengeance, Episode 3 (The Greater Good), the overgrown garden where Crixus and his team dress themselves in rags before heading to the mines is the peristylium, which might have been surrounded by a bath and kitchens and storerooms and bedrooms. A typical Roman villa would also have a couple of dining rooms or side rooms ringing the main atrium (where the open roof would allow rainwater to gather in the shallow pool set into the floor).
> 
> I haven’t given the medicus a name because (like Doctore) the title is one of respect. The man earned the title of Medicus and (I imagine) it would be disrespectful to call him by his given name (or, perhaps, even ask him for it unless you held a position of similar rank).
> 
> Regarding Nasir’s views on touch, there is a moment in The Arena, Chapter 5 (before the funeral games for Magistrate Calavius) when Lysandros pats Nasir’s shoulder. Here are my thoughts on that: Lysandros has the spirit of a warrior (we’ll see more indications of this in future chapters) and he’s spent a lot of time among gladiators (who don’t have the same issues with touch that house slaves do) and Lysandros has helped Nasir dress for training after he became an official member of the Brotherhood (and Lysandros possibly gave Nasir a hand with his “hoplomachus costume” before Nasir’s first trip to the arena… because Nasir wasn’t a warrior before arriving at the ludus, so he wasn’t familiar with how armor fastens). Anyway, all I’m saying is that Lysandros and Nasir are comfortable with each other in a way that’s not automatic for most house slaves like Zaria (who has clearly been through a lot of bad shit in her short life).
> 
> Aaand, I'm sure you've noticed that a lot of my headcanon from "Blood and Battle" has eked into this story, too. (^_~)


	5. Seeking Marius (Duro POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duro's POV (Yes, I know you've been W A I T I N G for this.)
> 
> For future reference:  
> Several canon-based characters are given names in this chapter.  
> Spartacus: Vengeance, Episode 2: A Place In This World  
> SCENE: five male villa slaves are arranged in a line for Spartacus to speech at and are then handed weapons  
> FOR THE PURPOSE OF THIS FIC, these men are (from left to right)  
> Moritus, Calius, Jusix, Tilius, and Tiberius (Nasir).
> 
> Formatting: indented text = flashback/backstory.  
> It's a loooooong flashback passage with flashbacks within THAT flashback, so I use simple past tense for the main flashback and I use past perfect for references to the flashbacks-within-the-main-flashback. I haven't heard that anyone hasn't been seeing the indents in previous chapters, so I've gone ahead and used those again. Let me know if the formatting fails and I'll offset it with scene breaks instead.

 

Spartacus.

Everyone knew the Thracian’s name.  They’d fucking chanted it in the arena.  Whispered it behind pillars and in alcoves of the market in Capua.  Even house slaves stuck in these pompous, cock-fuck villas had heard his legend.

Unbelievable.

“Bored already, pup?”

I answered Donar’s smirk with one of my own.  “I told you to allow the guards a fighting chance, did I not?”

With a snort, he grumbled, “Two matches in the arena and you fancy yourself a champion.”

“I am very fucking fancy,” I boasted happily.

Donar rolled his eyes.  “I never thought I’d miss your brother.  He’s the only one who can smack sense into you.”

I opened my mouth to retort; my brother had undoubtedly found other tasks to set his hands to… if he and that goat Crixus hadn’t strangled each other during the journey south.  I could barely believe that they hadn’t killed each other in Capua…

> The entrance to the cisterns was just visible in the early morning gloom of an overcast day.  It had been a very long day of travel to reach this point and I was hungry, thirsty, exhausted--
> 
> Agron threw out an arm to stop me when I reached for the latch.  Shaking his head, he shoved the door open himself and pulled back, awaiting attack.  Waiting.  Waiting.   _ ** **Waiting.****_
> 
> Not so long ago, we would have charged in, weapons in hand or not.  Now I was too tired to manage it.  Though I was hungry enough to imagine it.  An empty stomach had always aided in setting intent to timely purpose.
> 
> But not this morning.
> 
> Eventually, one of the former house slaves peeped out at us and we both relaxed.  “Agron and Duro,” my brother declared, as though we had been invited to fucking Roman banquet.  “We would break words with Spartacus.”
> 
> Spartacus, however, did not answer the summons.  Crixus did.
> 
> “Spartacus has already left to confront that fuck Glaber,” the Gaul snarled and Agron stiffened.  “My men and I move south.  If you seek to save his life, break words with Mira and--”
> 
> Agron spoke in a rush: “Nasir protects Naevia.”
> 
> Three words.  Yet they changed everything.
> 
> Crixus froze.  “Your fucking meaning, German?”
> 
> “Naevia has been found and she is safe from Roman hands,” Agron clarified as the Gaul gaped in shock.  “We will take you to her, but we must first retrieve Spartacus.  Unless _****you****_  stand prepared to face the next wave Rome sends!”
> 
> He did not.  We did not.  Fuck.  Spartacus was the only one of us to have served in the Roman army and knew their ways.  If any of us desired to live beyond the next battle, we would need that mad fucking Thracian!
> 
> We rushed to city center, cloaked and disguised.  I gaped at the colors and crowded streets.  My skin itched and I wondered if Agron and I had passed this way before when we’d first been brought to market to be sold.  The sunlight, the air, the dust, the featureless Romans were all the same as they’d been that day.  The day my brother and I had become the property of a goat-fucked lanista.
> 
> My fingers curled around sword pommel and fuck but I wanted vengeance!  Never mind food and drink; I would take blood instead.
> 
> Agron’s hand on my arm: _****we must wait****._
> 
> Goatfucking shit.  I hated waiting.  Even more than waiting, I hated listening to that preening little fuck in full regalia as he stroked his tiny cock for the audience.
> 
> And then it happened--in quick succession like the beats of a heart:
> 
> Lucretia stepped into the sunlight, her childlike face fearful, gaze darting nervously over the crowd, pausing, focusing, finding one face.
> 
> Her horrified scream.
> 
> The soldiers’ confusion.
> 
> Spartacus’ strike.
> 
> He shot past the assembled citizens, easy to spot, and we converged.  One Roman fuck after another fell beneath our swords, but more surged into the square until their numbers stood too great.
> 
> Agron and I pulled Spartacus from the overexcited crowd, our retreat covered by Rabanus, Crixus, Donar, Sophus, and Rhaskos.  It was satisfying to leave so many dead Roman soldiers decorating the sand in our wake and return absent casualty, but Spartacus saw only that Glaber yet drew breath.  He struggled, half-formed curses falling from his lips as Agron tossed him into the curtained-off room Spartacus shared with Mira.
> 
> “Fucking idiot Thracian!” Agron raged, clinging to sense with gritted teeth and clawed fingers.  Though he stood ready to rend a man limb-from-limb with bare fucking hands, this was nothing compared to the madness I had seen from him in Nasir’s absence from ludus.
> 
> “What would you have me do?” Spartacus howled, pain and breath echoing in the cisterns.  “Turn from the man that condemned my wife to slavery?  Let him live that took everything from me?”
> 
> My brother snarled: “You would openly target a fucking praetor?”
> 
> Fuck my ass.  This was Spartacus’ quest?  He sought the death of one man: Glaber, who now claimed rank of fucking Roman  _ ** **praetor?****_
> 
> Still, that singular promotion would not have grown him a new set of balls.  We could easily best the little swine fuck… were it not for the Senate’s inevitable reprisal.  Fuck it all to piss and shit.
> 
> Agron blustered, “Is this the manner of foolishness Nasir made attempt to dissuade in ludus?”
> 
> Fuck.  Truly?  Time and time again following Doctore’s announcement of the funeral games, whenever Nasir and Spartacus had slyly conferred on the sands in apparent accidental meetings, had my little Syrian brother been putting forth effort to halt Spartacus’ mad rush to swift vengeance and inevitable death?
> 
> Having just glimpsed the Thracian’s single-minded purpose in the streets of Capua, I could believe it.  Fuck.  I did believe it.
> 
> Agron growled, spinning away from our leader’s stony expression to find another wall to fling his displeasure at.
> 
> Mira’s fury was just as great but a sharp, directed blow rather than my brother’s all-encompassing blast: “Do any of us hold fucking worth to you?  We need a leader!  If you abandon us, we are all dead.”
> 
> Crixus stormed in and refused Spartacus’ gratitude with fist to jaw.  “I did not come to lend you aid, you mad fuck!  I came to stop you!”
> 
> Could not both aims be met?  I felt the lot of us had done a fair share of both.
> 
> The Gaul snarled, “What do you think would be the result of killing a fucking praetor?  The Senate would burn upon itself, belching forth fire and vengeance!”
> 
> I blinked.  Did I just witness Crixus agreeing with Agron’s thinking?  Gods save us.
> 
> Relentlessly, the shit-eating goat cunt drove point home: “Rome would not send a few men as they do with Glaber.  They would send thousands!  A true army… which we will never be.”
> 
> Spartacus had never appeared so much like a chastised little boy.  Somehow, I bit back the laugh.  Effort was aided by the defeated sorrow in the Gaul’s expression.  The poor fuck.  He’d finally been given hope that his woman was yet alive and safe, and Spartacus had been a mad lunge away from killing us all.
> 
> “We have a plan to build our forces,” I offered into the tension, “so that we may succeed against Glaber.  If head is removed from ass and ears cleaned, we’ll gladly speak it.”
> 
> Spartacus nearly smiled.  He sighed.  Nodded.  “I heed your words.  Speak.”
> 
> Agron and I spoke.  Spartacus heeded.  Amazingly, Crixus did as well.  Though, in truth, the direction of his movements was unchanged -- he had planned to sack every fucking villa between himself and Naevia with intent to learn her location.  Though her location was now known and urgency no longer required, we would take as many villas as we liked during the march south.
> 
> “We will take all,” Spartacus vowed as he looked from me and my brother to Mira, repeating his rousing call to freedom spoken within ludus: simply freeing ourselves from bondage would gain us little more than a few more sunrises -- once foot had been set upon path, we would move to crash against Rome as the tide roars upon the shore.  By Spartacus’ own words, shackles would be struck from every slave encountered.  With each, we would see our numbers grow.  And once we stood as a legion, we would face Glaber and his men again.
> 
> “And the Roman gods shall weep for their suffering.”
> 
> A bold promise.  I rather liked it.
> 
> The first villa fell too easily.  The slaves stood in a state of shock that not even Spartacus’ blood-stirring speech could move to purpose.
> 
> “Fucking empty-headed house slaves!” Agron snapped when the man he’d been questioning merely stared at him blankly in response.
> 
> I shoved my brother aside.  “Fucking short-tempered moron!” I accused him.  “Not three days absent Nasir’s company and you snarl as if you’ve goathead shoved in ass.”
> 
> He huffed.  Crossed his arms.
> 
> I smirked, enjoying the hit I’d scored.  Turning toward the freed slave Agron had been interrogating, I blinked at the shrewd look in the man’s eyes.  Hm.  Not so empty-headed after all.  “Apologies,” I spoke, soft and earnest.  “My brother is too old to change his barbarian ways.”
> 
> “Fuck yourself in shit and piss,” Agron grumbled.
> 
> I ignored him.  “We travel through Rome as free men and invite you to join our cause.”
> 
> “The cause Spartacus speaks of,” the man answered quietly.
> 
> “The same.”
> 
> “No good will come of it.  You will hang on the cross.”
> 
> I smiled.  “They will have to kill me first.  And then--”  I shrugged blithely.  “--I will not care what they do to a corpse.”
> 
> Something flickered in the man’s eyes.  Some forgotten surprise.  As if he had only heard rumors of men who would die for their beliefs.
> 
> I thrust out my right arm.  “I am Duro, from the lands east of the Rhine.  What are you called?”
> 
> As the former slave reluctantly accepted my clasp, I belatedly recalled Nasir’s advice against this very act.  Fuck.  I would not forget again.
> 
> “Vipio.”
> 
> “Vipio,” I repeated, releasing his arm and noting the speed with which he withdrew.  “You are free to join us or make your own way, but could we trouble you to show us where the grain and oil are kept?”
> 
> The man’s expression closed off.  “I cannot stop you from taking whatever you like.”
> 
> “We take back only what has been taken from us,” I argued.  “Has your master never set you to task with no regard for your empty belly, parched throat, or soiled skin?”
> 
> He had.  I could see it in the man’s eyes.  But in this land, what slave had not suffered similar treatment?
> 
> “Your master now lies dead.  You are free.”  I grinned for such a thing was fucking joyous.  “He will never command you away from food or drink or comfort again.”
> 
> “Then what do you command?”
> 
> I shook my head, ignoring Agron’s shifting weight and growing impatience.  “I do not command.  I make request.  Will you share what you now possess with the ones who removed your master and his guards to the afterlife?”
> 
> Vipio considered me carefully.  He scowled at Agron and I had to stop myself from punching my shit-for-brains brother in the gut.
> 
> I held my breath.
> 
> Vipio nodded.  “The stores are this way.”
> 
> Indeed they were.  I gestured Leviticus and Fortis over to make selections for evening meal.
> 
> I offered words of gratitude to Vipio and, as soon as the man turned away, Agron’s hand clapped my shoulder.  “Well done.”
> 
> “Well, someone has to keep you from frightening our new brothers.”  I poked him in the ribs.  “At least until you go on ahead with Crixus.”
> 
> He frowned.  “Why would I do such a thing?”
> 
> I rolled my eyes.  “Truly?  You need reminding?  Shall carve his name into your fucking arm so you do not forget?”
> 
> His eyes narrowed.  “I would not abandon you.”
> 
> “You do not.  I am a fucking grown man, brother.”
> 
> A short laugh burbled past his lips.  “And you do not require my assistance in this.”  His gesture encompassed the villa, its slaves, and its stores.  This.  Revolution.
> 
> Fucking--just--fucking unbelievable.  The pride in my brother’s gaze was--it--I had waited years for this look.
> 
> I punched him in the gut.  He locked an arm around my neck.  We punished each other for our lateness and stupidity.  We laughed, congratulating each other on our progress.
> 
> By the gods, we would cause Rome to fucking tremble before the end.  In the meantime, our paths would part ways: I would follow Spartacus and Agron would return to Nasir.  It was as it should be.
> 
> At earliest opportunity, Agron crammed the wagon half full of provisions and half full of Peirastes’ trainees and called for Crixus to dress his Gaul ass in a disguise and take to fucking road.  Poor Libo had nearly been tossed into the driver’s seat.
> 
> I did not envy them the ordeal they would face as Agron’s thin patience frayed step by fucking step.  Especially since the journey would be made even longer due to wagon weighted down with supplies.  But if my brother and the Gaul could keep the cart between the two of them, there stood the possibility that they both would survive to be reunited with Nasir and Naevia.
> 
> My brother and Nasir.  By the gods, it was fucking embarrassing: Agron would make attempt to lick his own ass if Nasir so much as--

“Strike fear and quiet concern!” Spartacus shouted from the top step and all murmurings in the yard -- fearful and excited -- quieted immediately.  Milling bodies reached out to embrace familiar neighbors.  I thought of Agron.  Not that I would have embraced the stupid shit were he here, but… fuck.  How could I not wonder about him?  This was the first time since even before our capture that Agron and I had been absent each other’s sight.  More or less.

“Our quarrel is not with you,” Spartacus assured all.  “It’s with those who would place themselves your master.”

Spartacus gestured with sword’s point to a fallen guard.  Donar’s ax had seen the shit to the afterlife.  That brought his total to five since we’d struck out from Capua, moving across country toward the abandoned villa in the south.  I’d felled my fourth just inside the atrium.  Agron had put down three alone at the first villa.

But with Agron now distant, Donar alone stood as my competition for most vengeful German and I would out-stripe him yet in Roman lives taken.  With every presumptuous fuck killed, my sense of purpose grew: one less Roman who would make attempt to call himself someone else’s master.

“A title that bears no meaning to us,” the mad Thracian proclaimed to those assembled.  “Nor to you now, should you wish it so.  You are presented choice as we once were.”

I nudged Donar’s side on a giggle that earned me an exasperated glare.  Donar did not see the humor, dim-witted fuck.  Presented choice: what fucking choice was there?  I would hack off Roman cock before bending over for it.  That was fucking choice!

Spartacus used other, softer words: “To submit forever to Roman cruelty or to take up arms and join us in freedom!”

“I would follow the wine,” Donar muttered.

I bit my lip to hold in the laugh.

“Where stands the dominus of this house?” Spartacus called and all of us focused intently on the gathering of new faces.  Pale, fair women and dark-skinned men, for the most part.  Two of the latter put me in mind of Nasir from their coloring alone, and my desire to choke the life out of the entitled shit that dwelt here increased tenfold.

Marius.  I planned to deliver his salted head to Nasir with fanfare and flourish.  It was the second thing Agron had asked of me before he’d left with the Gaul and Peirastes.  The first -- “Don’t fucking die, you moron” -- had been more of a farewell than an actual request.  Words that couldn’t not be said, really.  The second -- “Send that fuck Marius to the afterlife” -- I was very much looking forward to making true.

I would never be able to banish the sight of Nasir, forearm still blistering from the brand of the Brotherhood and eyes vacant, his mind trapped in a cage of memory even as he clawed at my supporting hand: _****“Tell Marius to fuck himself.  I won’t do it any longer.  I refuse.”****_

Fuck the gods did I want that Roman’s neck under my blade.

A man -- taller than the rest but still puny beside me -- shifted, his gaze darting over both those of the Brotherhood and the former house slaves we had collected along the way.  This was the man to break words with.  By now, I was confident my persuasive charm would gain us the information we needed.

Offering a shy smile, I hunched my shoulders a bit -- fuck, I’d forever be called a pup for this, but it fucking worked! -- and shuffled half a step closer to the house slave.  His hair had been twisted into short nubs and I instantly missed my own woven locks.

“Grow it again when we have returned home,” Agron had growled at me.

Fuck waiting.  I’d regrow it here in Rome.  All the better to offend their delicate senses.

“Spartacus speaks truth,” I murmured, knowing my voice would carry and set thoughts whirling and tongues wagging.  “We seek the dominus.  We hold no intent to harm any who bear a collar.”  I glanced down at his.  It resembled the one Nasir had arrived in the ludus wearing.  “Or any who willingly remove it from neck.”

The man glanced from me to Spartacus.  His gaze darted from the sword in the Thracian’s grasp to the one sheathed at my hip.

“What are you called?” I inquired gently.

“Tilius.”

“Tilius.  I am called Duro, from the lands east of the Rhine.”  I had to still the urge to offer my arm.

“You do not understand house slaves of Rome,” Nasir had stubbornly lectured the day before our departure.  He’d sent Agron on some fucking errand or other and locked his unshakable focus upon me.  Fuck was he stubborn.  He had told: “Any gesture will appear well received, but to a slave’s mind, it is one they hold no right to refuse.”

Though this was hardly the time for it, I wondered if my brother’s touch had ever been unwelcome.  The poor fuck had fallen embarrassingly fast for Nasir.  Nasir had never seemed uncomfortable accepting Agron’s helpless advances, but now… now as I took in the sight of so many passive stares, I wondered.

And just as quickly dismissed the niggling concern: Nasir had hissed and spat insult at a fucking gladiator from that very first night.  He’d practically dared Varro to take his life.  Nasir had never stood among these poor, beaten-down shits.

“Tilius,” I began, still speaking softly.  “Do you know where Marius is?”

Something sharp and vicious flickered in the man’s expression and I quickly revised my opinion -- perhaps these men and women were no more defeated than Nasir had been.  My little Syrian brother had proved, again and again, to be fucking fierce.  Surely, he did not stand the only one.

Tilius asked, “For what purpose do you seek him?”

I said simply and truthfully, “I would have his head.  For injury inflicted upon a man who stands as my brother.”  I smiled and told, “You may know him.  He was once called Tiberius by the dominus of this villa.”

The man’s eyes widened.

A breathtakingly beautiful woman with a head of long, flaxen ringlets moved closer and bent toward our discussion.  As if the whole fucking yard wasn’t listening in.  “Tiberius lives?”

My grin stretched wide.  “They call him Nasir in the arena of Capua.”

A ripple of awe moved through the yard; they had heard his name.  His, but not mine.  Once, I would have burned with envy.  Now I nearly burst from pride.  I had played a part in setting those soft hands to bold purpose.  My brother and I, Spartacus and Varro, Rabanus and Doctore and even dumb fuck Donar -- we’d made a warrior out of an angry, hissing, sharp-tongued house slave and bid the Roman gods to fuck themselves.

“If he lives,” the woman countered, challenging, “why does he not stand among you now?”

“A wound,” I readily answered.  “Gained when we took the house of Batiatus.  If you would see him with your own eyes, we will show you the way.”  My hand twitched toward Tilius’ shoulder, but again I stayed the impulse with effort.  “I would bring my brother a gift upon arrival.  The head of Marius.  Where will I find it?”

The woman exchanged a look with Tilius, who sighed heavily.  “Absent this villa.  He travels.  Due to return at evening on the morrow.”

I glanced toward Spartacus and received a short nod.

“Gratitude,” I spoke to Tilius.  I did not move away, but neither did I crowd him.  I stood among the newly liberated and wondered if it was too much or not enough.  Roman slaves were a strange lot, minds warped by twisted Roman fucks.

It sickened me to know that my well-meaning gestures of friendship toward Zaria may have been interpreted as a command to cede to my will in all things.  I resented Nasir for polluting my mind with such awareness, but I’d come away from that discussion with desire multiplied tenfold to kill as many fucking Romans as I could lay hands on.  A worthwhile pursuit if there ever was one.

Spartacus prompted Mira and she stepped forward to take command.  It fucking amazed me how the house slaves responded to her.  Not just here but in the other two villas.  When she quietly asked for an accounting of food and supplies, someone saw it done.  When she suggested cups and wine be brought forth, drink appeared.

Mira alone received murmured inquiries and hesitant smiles.  None of those who had risked life and limb and had brought freedom to these slaves -- the fighting men who had slit the throats and bellies of guards and masters -- not one of us were approached with words of gratitude or kindness.  Not even me and I, apparently, was the least threatening of the lot.

It was fucking frustrating.

If only Nasir were here.  He would know exactly what to do, how to speak to them, what to say to put them at ease.  Nasir was who these uncertain men and women really needed in the wake of sudden freedom.  Not Spartacus.  Not Donar.  Not those fucking Gauls and their love of roaring about ever-raging cock.  Stupid fucks.

Donar clapped me on the shoulder in passing as I followed Mira into the villa.  She and I would work with those who had yet to dare to consider removing their own collar; we set hands to task of laying out food and drink in the atrium while dead bodies were stripped and piled in the yard, weapons and armor cleaned, blood and gore washed from busy pathways.

Camilla, a woman of maternal years, girth, and manner, handled the people who had already learned to trust us.  She had served the house of Batiatus for as many years as that cranky medicus and she delegated household duties with ease.  On her command, the wagons were brought in and beds laid out in the dining rooms and bedrooms -- in any room that promised relative rest -- so Mira and I did what we could to stay out of her way.

I was handed an amphora of wine by the lovely, ringlet-haired woman who had been concerned for Nasir and I smiled my thanks.  I even earned one in reply.  Though I did not understand the thinking of Roman slaves, they did seem to trust my smile.

“Take food and wine for yourselves if you desire it,” I invited them.  “And take rest wherever you like, but know that no one will disturb you in your usual quarters.”

Mira concurred with a confident nod and the newly liberated men and women gradually dispersed, moving as if they expected to be called back or scolded.

“You are very good with them,” Mira approved.

“I follow your lead,” I returned.  When she arched her brows in silent doubt, I added, “And Nasir’s advice.”  Which I had never asked for.  But there was nothing those dark eyes did not see.  No needful words he would not speak.

At first, I had found his counsel accusing: “You believe I would force myself upon a woman?”

“No,” he’d been quick to answer.  “But a woman who does not understand her right to refuse will not invoke it.  My aim is to protect you both from pain and misunderstanding.”

It truly was.  Agron was lucky to have found such a man.  And even more so to receive his loyalty and love.

Mira mused: “Nasir.  You speak of him often.  And seek to avenge him.  I would break words with this gladiator.”

I laughed.  “A happening I would pay coin to witness!”  At her frown, I confided, “You’ll not meet a man of sharper tongue or quicker wit.”

“A gladiator?” she doubted.

“And a former body slave,” I revealed.  I did not think he would mind.  “He stands the best of both.”

In truth, I could not blame Agron for loving the man.  An act I would readily admit to being guilty of myself.  I might have even dared to compete with my own brother for Nasir’s affection had I possessed any preference whatsoever for cock.  It was just as well that I did not.  I counted myself fortunate that Nasir held both Agron and myself close to heart.

I washed at villa’s well in the yard, rubbing dried blood from my hands and arms, legs and feet.  I rinsed scalp in shockingly cold water.  Scrubbed at hair and scowled at its too-short length.  A thing only time would remedy.

Spartacus and Donar awaited on the portico and Donar gave report on the weapons we’d acquired from fallen guards: enough to see eight more men armed.  I’d counted three among Marius’ former house slaves who might be trained.  Still…

“Only a fool would hold them to same standard as Nasir,” I cautioned.

Spartacus argued: “Every man has his worth.”

Donar grunted.  “And one night -- one week -- or even one month may not see it to fruition.”

“I’ll not deny them opportunity for vengeance,” the Thracian insisted.  “Like Nasir, their fire may yet prove as fierce as ours.”

I snorted.  “You speak of Nasir as if he has not proven himself more so.”

Of his most recent trials and tribulations, my Syrian brother had been beaten senseless and left to rot in a filthy cell for two nights and the very long day in between.  He had freed himself from cart bound for the mines, killing all seven slavers.  Without pause, he had turned back toward Capua, hauled his battered body through Batiatus’ villa, come between me and a dishonorable Roman fuck, and taken wound.  Then, he’d accepted another fucking branding without making a sound all absent genuine rest and sustenance.  No one among the Brotherhood had been tested as relentlessly as Nasir.

No argument was given voice, and I wished Nasir were here to witness the silent praise.

Spartacus stood as Sophus and Tychos ushered the three men -- including Tilius -- onto the portico.  “We hold to plan; we will rejoin Agron before setting purpose to gaining good position and liberating fighting men, but we are here now.  I would not waste time.”

Donar sighed, but the words seemed reasonable enough to me.

Spartacus’ inspiring speech was yet again met with blank expressions.  Collars were torn from necks.  Pommel of gladius weighed in hands.  These men would dream of blood and battle this night and wake with hearts pounding and necks dewed with sweat.  Those who chose to stand as victors would join us in training on the morrow.

“Tilius?” I prompted.

Spartacus had withdrawn to look over the maps Mira had found, leaving me to see to the new recruits: my first charge stood the return of their weapons to the armory Litaviccus had hastily organized, but my second was to ensure each man’s peace of mind.  Moritus and Jusix looked relieved to be rid of their swords, but Tilius paused for a moment on the threshold.

I waited.  It was not as difficult as it had been before.  Could a man become more practiced in patience?  Hm.  I could imagine Nasir telling me it stood a skill like any other.

Tilius jiggled the sword still in his grasp.  “Tiberius learned to wield this?”

Again, I had to resist the urge to place an encouraging hand on the man’s shoulder.  “Nasir -- his name is Nasir.  And I’m honored to know such a warrior.”  I grinned and reached up to rub the back of my neck.  “Just, um, do not tell of it to him.”

Tilius smirked, pressed the handle of the sword into my grasp, and took his leave.

I replaced the gladius with the others and wandered out into the atrium just in time to hear Rhaskos bellow at a passerby: “You!  Slave!  See my jug filled!”

Ugh.  Truly?

“Rhaskos!  Fetch drink yourself,” Spartacus ordered.

I turned the corner.  Spartacus was glaring, eyes narrowed at Rhaskos’ idiotic grin.  Beyond the Gaul, a figure had tensed on atrium threshold.  The same indescribable beauty from earlier.  I had not yet learned her name.

Stepping up to Rhaskos, I offered with honeyed sweetness and grand gesture, “If you fear losing your way, might I provide escort?”

Barking a laugh, he shouldered past me.  The shove was intended to knock me aside, but I’d been a hard-headed younger brother for as many years as he’d been a goat cunt from Gallia, so we stood pretty evenly matched.

Liscus chuckled.  Mannus snorted into his cup.

Acer shouted: “At least the pup is more amusing than his fuck of a brother!”

“An unjust comparison,” I retorted, jovially.  Though, to be fair, Agron was generally at his most amusing when ruthlessly insulting Gauls.  “But, hold a moment… oh, is that the…?  Yes, it is!  That is the sound of no one laughing at a shit-for-brains’ attempt at wit!”

“Suck the piss from my cock!” Acer snarled.

I smirked.  “A generous offer, but I shall piss, er, I mean, _****pass****_  on it.”

Spartacus’ lips twitched.  “I would ask that all pissing take place out-of-doors.”

Laughter rolled through the atrium.  Saluting our sagely commander, I pivoted toward the portico and glimpsed a flash of long, pale ringlets disappearing around the side of the villa.  Hm.  We’d had an audience.

That night, I took first watch on the wall.  I took rest on a pallet that smelled vaguely of Gaul -- fucking filthy Rhaskos -- and then I took meal the next morning.  Tilius made good effort in training, facing me with gratifying determination.  Surprisingly, I missed Nasir a little less.  And with Acer and Rhaskos continuing to be goat cunts, I did not miss Agron, either.  Well, not overmuch.

Before evening meal, Spartacus ordered the yard readied to receive the returning dominus.  Men were set upon the wall to keep watch.  I took position to best view the lookouts and gate: a simple precaution to ensure we were not taken by surprise as the original guards had been.

Motion at the corner of my eye had me straightening from my slouch against pillar.  The woman was back.  I nodded a greeting, offered a half smile.

She returned it twofold and stepped closer.

My shoulders straightened; my lips curved so widely my jaw ached; my head spun.  I forced my attention back toward the lookouts.  “I am Duro--” I began quietly.

“From the lands east of the Rhine,” she finished quietly.

I was inordinately pleased that she remembered.  Blood rushed through my body.

She inquired: “Have you lived long in Rome?”

I shook my head.  From within the villa, sloshes and laughter, muffled words growing steadily louder with each cup of wine drunk.  Soon the dim fucks would be singing about their cocks again, subligaria around their ankles.  Fuck the gods.  Was it any wonder so many Gauls bumbled into Rome’s net?

“And you?” I inquired in fair exchange.  “Have you long lived in Rome?”

“It is all I know.”

I nodded and asked, “What are you called?”

Her smile was blinding.  “Chadara.”

“Lovely,” I told her, meaning it in all ways.  Her form, her face, her smile, and her name.  So very lovely.  I had never received such singular attention from a woman more beautiful.  I was made dizzy from her gaze.

_****Calm, boy.  Calm.** ** _

With a measured breath, I did.

She moved closer.  I kept eyes upon the lookouts.

“Would you like company this night?” she inquired.

Fuck the gods.  How to answer?  It had been a long time since I’d been offered the comfort of a woman’s body.  And--fuck--she was so lovely.

I risked a moment to meet her gaze and what I saw shocked me back to my senses: she still wore a collar.

With that sight came realization in a cresting tide of revulsion: not so long ago, this woman had been at beck and call of the very same Roman who had used my brother Nasir.  The thought of my cock taking the same slick path as Marius’ was more than enough to chill my blood and disperse desire.

I had once overheard Agron growl to Nasir, “I am no fucking Roman.”

At the time, I had been woefully confused and somewhat concerned -- why would my brother have cause to speak such a thing to his lover? -- but I now understood that there were circumstances to prompt such sentiment: Chadara did not yet consider herself a free woman and I refused to lie with a slave of Rome.

And yet, that life had not been Chadara’s choice.

So.  I would present her with a new one.

“I would break words later if you do not mind waiting.  I stand duty now.”  I sent a sidelong look her way, gauging her reaction.  “But if you desire questions answered, speak them freely.”

She frowned.  “You would answer while attention is divided?”

I shrugged.  “What attention is required when speaking truth?”

“A generous offer.”

“Such that any free man -- or free woman -- would extend to another.”  My words were met with silence, though she did not withdraw from the portico.  “Do you wish to hear of Nasir?”

“Tiberius?” she checked and I nodded.  “Is he well?  What manner of wound does he suffer?”

I described: “He took a Roman blade in left side and lost much blood before Medicus ordered his wound sealed with fire.”

By the gods, I had never seen my brother look so fucking proud and terrified and determined all at the same time.  How steady his hand had been.  I was yet baffled by that.  But if Agron had not done the deed, then I would have volunteered; Nasir was our brother.  His joy, sorrow, progress, and pain -- all of that we would claim as our charge.  We would not leave him in the hands of another so long as we stood capable of tending to him.

Though, I was thankful it had not been my hand to touch glowing steel to flesh.  The sound and stench had been fucking wretched.  Nasir had, mercifully, lost consciousness swiftly.

I turned my thoughts away from that night to tell of his next struggle: “Then, a journey over land and three days of fevered delirium -- he may be a little man, but he is stubborn.  Strong.”

A long moment passed before Chadara spoke again, returning to the battle I had spoken of: “The fighting was so chaotic?”

“It was, but I admit to distraction.  Nasir had been summoned by his patron two days before and had not been returned to my brother and I.  We were seeking answers on his location when a guard who had escaped the fighting launched assault.  I moved to shield my brother and, suddenly, there was Nasir.”

I leaned back against the pillar, remembering the gut-shocking sight of him: “Beaten and bruised and dressed as a fucking slaver, throwing himself upon the Roman.”  No doubt using the last of his strength to do it.  Fuck.  Horror had branded that moment into memory to the point that I stood capable of describing every detail should Chadara press for more.

“He saved your life.”  She did not sound surprised.  “Now you count him as brother.”

“Ah, no.  I mean, yes to the first; no to the second.  He has stood as a brother for much longer.”

“Through what sequence of events?”

With a shake of head, I admitted, “Too many to count.  How do you consider him?”

She smiled and it was perhaps the most genuine of all the expressions I had seen from her thus far.  “A true friend.  Rare in this life.”

“There is no man like him,” I agreed.

She seemed to wilt.  “You hold love for him.”

I laughed.  “The love of a brother.”

“You do not lie with him?”

My brows quirked.  “Even if I favored cock, I would not risk my brother Agron’s wrath.”  But with a sudden grin, I allowed, “Well… no, maybe I would.  Agron could stand to be brought down a notch, but I hold no illusions on the outcome: I would not be Nasir’s choice.”

Chadara drew a deep breath.  Her shoulders straightened.  “You would be mine.  Duro.”

Eyes wide, I blurted, “Blunt, aren’t you?”

“When bluntness is called for.”

My grin renewed.  “Plain-speaking suits you.”

“If it calls forth your answer,” she teased, watching me through her lashes, “I would make it habit.”

It was fucking flattering to think I could embolden this woman, but I was equally ill at ease.  I once again thought of Nasir, seeking comparison, and after a moment discovered the rub: Nasir would not change his manner to please anyone, not even Agron.  In the past he had, perhaps, for the sake of survival.  But never again.

With a sigh, I allowed another moment of inattention to duty, meeting Chadara’s gaze and returning her plain speech in kind: “You flatter me, but I am no fucking Roman.  I will not stand in the place of one.”

“I seek only to honor you.”

“Honor.”  If only it were that simple.  “I must seek that for myself.  And you for yourself.”

“So I am to be used equally by all the men?  Some of those Gauls smell of shit.”

Her nose wrinkled and I had to stop myself from kissing the tip of it.  Fuck she was lovely, but she did not understand my meaning.  I did not know how to teach it to her.

Instead, I vowed, “None are permitted to harass any freed slaves.”  I gestured to her throat.  “The removal of this fucking thing will aid you.”

Chadara blinked, her hand flying up to collar’s edge.  Had she forgotten it was there?  I couldn’t fathom how anyone could, but what did I know of slave collars?  Nothing.

Fuck, I was an oaf.  Well, perhaps I still might be of aid.  I told her, “Should firm refusal not deter unwanted advances, come to me.”

She moved closer yet.  Her fingers brushed over my wrist, reversing my blood with a mind-spinning rush.  “I am willing to pay in similar coin…”

Drawing a deep breath -- ah, fuck, she even smelled lovely -- I lifted my hand slowly and traced her hair back, fingertips gliding over her ear.  She shivered.  “Chadara.  I make offer absent expectation of payment.”

“Then how can I trust it?”

I shrugged, dropping my hand and turning away.  “Trust or do not.  It is your choice.  Offer still stands, though I hope you will have no need of it.”  I gave her a teasing grin.  “I suspect you are not a woman any man possessed of fucking sense would dare cross.”

She bit her lip, eyes sparkling.  There was something in her -- some spirit -- that I would encourage.  To see such a look in the light of day--

“Riders approach!”

My spine snapped straight, launching me a step away from the pillar.  “How many?  From what direction?”

“Six, perhaps eight.  From the north.”

Addressing Chadara, I asked, “Marius returns?”

“From the north?  No, I would not think so.  Patrols of that size sometimes arrive from Capua.”

“Gratitude,” I murmured and, with a jerk of my chin, nodded her toward the safety of the villa.

I went in search of Spartacus.  Luckily, he had not retired for the night so the news caused no untimely interruption.  After declining Chadara’s offer, I had no desire to witness anyone bare-assed in mid-fuck.

“It is not Marius who draws near?” the Thracian checked and I could answer only that it was unlikely.

“A patrol, perhaps.”  I grinned enthusiastically.  “My sword will offer as warm a greeting to Roman soldiers!”

Spartacus patted my arm.  “Yet less effort would see the Romans remain blind to our movements.”

“You would have us cower in corners?” I sneered.

The look this earned me was a scolding in and of itself.  “Too many among our number cannot defend themselves.  We cannot yet risk a greater force descending upon us should they escape our grasp bearing suspicions.”

With a huff, I stood aside as Moritus was called forward.  He stood a man approaching middle years, possessed of dark skin and eyes.  Spartacus gave instruction for him to open the gate, let the soldiers into the yard but no further, answer their queries and send them away ignorant of the bloody battle that had taken place here.  Liscus and Leviticus were already dressing themselves in the garb of villa guards.

Just before Moritus was sent outside to tend to task, I barred his way with an arm.  “Halt a moment, Spartacus.”  Turning to the chosen man and his stony expression, I spoke, “Do you accept this charge?”

His lip quivered.  “I shall see it done.”

I glanced at Spartacus.  He’d seen and heard the same thing I had: Moritus was terrified.

“Who among those of this house would address visitors?” Spartacus inquired.  A question he ought to have posed at the first.

Tilius stepped forward, resigned.  “I am often charged with that duty.”

“Can you answer their questions with confidence and ease?”

He nodded.  I admired his determination.

The sound of horses drawing up outside the walls stalled additional words.

As Spartacus signaled for everyone to fall back toward the rear of the villa, Sophus, Tychos, Pollux, Lydon, and myself took up position near villa entrance.  Donar and Rabanus crossed to the stables.  The Veteran and the half-drunken Gauls disappeared beyond the dining rooms to form a second line of defense near the garden.

A pounding knock reverberated through the wooden gate.  I caught Tilius’ arm as he drew a steadying breath and moved to answer it.  “Stay beyond reach of sword.  I will come to your aid if needed.”

He nodded.

He crossed the yard.  Opened the gate.  Assured the patrolling soldiers that all was well; Marius was absent on business.

“What business calls him away from beloved villa so close to harvest?” the commanding officer demanded.

“The sale of property.  His cousin Reginus, dead four years this winter -- his villa in the south is to be sold.  It is a day’s journey.  You may seek him there if your business is urgent.”

I sucked in a harsh breath.  Reginus’ villa was where Agron and Nasir awaited us.  I looked to Spartacus.  Glared.  His hard gaze warned me to hold position.

The soldier replied, “Very well.  Should our paths fail to cross upon road, inform him we will return within the week.”

“Yes, of course.”

There was an awkward pause.  I did not stop to consider the cause.  My jaw clenched as I glared at Spartacus.  We could not allow these fucks to leave and set upon Agron and Nasir!

Sounds of departure.  The soldiers were falling back.

_****No.** ** _

I sprang forward.  Bursting through the doorway, I shouted: “Close the gates!”

Liscus and Leviticus shoved them shut as I grabbed Tilius by the shoulder and yanked him onto the portico.  I could hear battle cries at my back, but I was already engaging the commander.  Liscus and Leviticus drew weapons.  The clang of metal in the dark.  I met the commander’s attack, wincing when he kicked hard against my scarred thigh.  I shoved him back.  A punch to my face sent me down against the steps.  Somewhere behind me, Tilius sprawled on the stone, gaping.

My sword coming up, barely blocking the commander’s downward blow, I kicked at his knee.  Rolled to my feet.  The fuck had spun toward Spartacus who was busily engaged with slicing the throat of his own opponent.  The commander raised blade toward the Thracian’s unguarded back.

_****No!** ** _

I launched.

Blade pierced leather armor, cloth, flesh.

A gurgle of blood.

The Roman commander’s body slumped to the ground.

Silence.

Spartacus looked up and into my eyes.  Nodded once.  I returned it and cast my gaze over the yard.  For the second night in a row, the ground was stained with blood and cluttered with bodies.

Tilius was pulling himself to his feet on the portico.  None of the bodies absent life bore the mark of the Brotherhood.  We had won.  We had--

“You fucking moron!” Liscus bellowed.  I dodged back from the blow aimed for my face.  “They were fucking fooled!”

Spartacus put out a hand but I was already answering the Gaul’s challenge: “Fuck ass, you piss and shit!  Where do Agron and Nasir await us?  You would send these fucks their way when we have more than enough men here to silence them?”

Liscus snarled incoherently.  I was not impressed; Agron’s rage was far more fearsome.

“Tiberius is at Reginus’ villa?”

Everyone turned toward Tilius, who looked genuinely bothered.

“Yes,” Spartacus answered.  “To what end did you direct the soldiers that way?”

“I did not know they-- I…”  He shook his head.  “I spoke truth -- thinking no harm would come of it.”

Facing the man, I somehow got my mouth to work.  “Marius is at the villa in the south?  His cousin Reginus’ villa?”

Tilius nodded helplessly.

“How many men accompany him?  When did they depart?”

“Six guards.  They left three days ago.”

Three days ago.

Three fucking days ago!

I whipped around, making for the gate.  Spartacus was already there, blocking my path.  “Halt, brother!  Calm yourself!”

“Don’t fucking tell me to--!”

Spartacus grabbed my shoulders.  Shook me.  Hard.  “Take pause and think!  Either the guards are long dead or Nasir has taken the others to hide in the woods to watch for Libo and cart.  He would not allow his brothers to walk into enemy embrace.”

I was panting.  I could hear the booming rasp of each lungful in my own ears.  I unfurled effort to deepen my breaths.  Spartacus was correct.  Marius and his guards were either two days into their journey for the afterlife or they were returning here in ignorance.  Any other possibility was unbearable.

“We leave at dawn,” Spartacus vowed, “and should we cross Marius’ path on the road, you will yet have his head.”

Jaw clenched and lips pursed, I glared.  Tore myself from his grasp.  Bit out each word through gritted teeth: “Then let us see it fucking done.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chadara’s collar is removed well before the second night that the rebels spend at the villa, but I chose to have her wear it a little longer. (Or perhaps she's hedging her bets just in case Roman soldiers show up and kill the rebels. If she's still wearing her collar like a "good and obedient slave," then perhaps her life will be spared?)
> 
> Also, though it’s not explicitly stated here, Seppius’ man notices the absence of Tilius’ slave collar. (Hence the oddly long pause before he orders his men to leave.) Luckily, Duro takes the initiative to keep them from escaping to gather reinforcements.
> 
> So, it turns out Duro comes into his own with pretty wicked awesome people skills. MORE ON THIS LATER.
> 
> Also, we haven't met Calius yet, but he was briefly mentioned at the end of Chapter 3: Fever.


	6. Blood Stained and Unashamed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: GORE (violence & torture), DEATH
> 
> Note: This chapter begins immediately after Marius’ arrival at the abandoned villa.
> 
> Theme music: "Warriors" by Imagine Dragons

 

Crashes.

Muffled by distance and tile, the sounds of footsteps and pawing hands sorting through our meager provisions.  There had been no time to pack or conceal what we had acquired.

I listened to the ruffling _****shuff!****_  of my pallet being overturned.  I had returned to sleeping near the overgrown garden where the gasps and whimpers that escaped my nightmares would be securely trapped, swallowed up by the grass.

Several guards moved into the bath, rummaging through the sets of armor and weapons.  I had collected mine, recruiting the steady hands of Medicus to assist with buckles.

“You will reopen wound,” he grumbled.

“And ease an old man’s boredom,” I retorted.

“Yes, how exciting it will be to dodge angry German pups.”

Well.  Agron and Duro would certainly prefer to place blame on shoulders other than mine.  And I was enough of a survivor to let them.  Regardless, it stood an issue for a later time.

Knife in hand, sword within sheath, I lay upon the roofing tiles in the gathering darkness.  Medicus was silent at my right.  Zaria and Naevia on my left.  Between them, they clutched the ladder, pulled up from the room in order to leave no sign of our passing.

“Fucking thieves,” one man grunted.  There was a crash and Naevia jerked.

“The horses and cart are more than enough to send them to the boars,” another agreed.

From observing their arrival -- one man had been boosted over the wall to unlock the gate -- I had confirmed the number of guards: six, all familiar and unwelcome faces.  Plus one slave and one Roman dominus.

Marius.

The gods showed fucking favor.

The sound of fine sandals slapping on dusty tile.  “What have you found?”

That impatient whine.  So familiar.  A shiver of revulsion and a flash of fury burst over me.  Would he bleed like any other man?  A question I would soon have answered.

“The thieves’ cache, Dominus, but no sign of the men themselves.”

“Hm.  If opportunity arises, I would apprehend them upon their return.  Regardless, we depart at dawn to summon assistance from Capua.  I’ll not have my cousin’s house overrun with vermin, sale imminent.”

“Understood, sir.  The first watch is set.  If they dare set foot within these walls, we will have them.”

I grinned.  My side complained.  The night stretched ahead, the promise of death in the clear air.  Tracking the sounds of my prey, I considered the positions of the guards.  Three took watch over the gate and yard.  Three would sleep now and relieve the others after midnight.  Marius would take rest barricaded behind the guards who slumbered.  His slave would likely remain awake all night to sound alarm.

Calius.  He and I had worked well enough together.  I would spare him if possible.  To my knowledge, he’d done nothing to deserve death.  I hoped it remained so.

Evening meal was served below.  While they were distracted with food and drink, I conferred with my companions, outlined the strategy I would use, inquired what role they would play.  Naevia startled easily at the sounds of men stomping and rummaging in the villa, but she was more determined than Zaria, who looked too pale in the moonlight.

A hour from midnight, I reconnoitered the roof in careful silence, checking the positions of each guard. Returning to the tiles above the bathroom, I patted Medicus on the shoulder and he moved into position.  I then summoned Zaria and Naevia to task.

Once I was in position, I quietly drew my sword and waved it in the moonlight.

Medicus tossed the empty water skin.  It struck the wall and plopped into the dust not far from where I crouched at lowest crease of eaves.  Trap was set.

The soft hiss of a sword being pulled from sheath.  A muffled footstep toward the bait.  Another step.  A shadow shifted, separated from the portico and the first guard moved into the yard.  I locked strength into my throbbing belly, swung over the edge, and dropped to the ground before stitches were completely torn from flesh.

The expected burn stole my breath.  I took advantage of silence and struck.

Blade pierced back-lung-breast.

Knife in hand slashed across throat.

I guided the boneless fall of Marius’ guard to the dirt and darted behind distant pillar.  Moments later, more footsteps.  Another of the guards patrolling villa’s perimeter.  By the time he caught sight of the body, I was hovering behind him.

Sword-through-back.

Knife-slicking-over-throat.

Gushing blood in the dark.

A Roman slumping his way into the afterlife.

I retook position.  Waited.  Waited.  Waited.

The third set of footsteps.

It was almost too easy.  Like the second guard, he froze at the gloomy lump in the sand.  Looked beyond to the first I had felled.  With his chin so accommodatingly lifted, I almost didn’t need the sword.  I used it anyway.

Sword and knife.  Three guards dead.

Three more yet to slay.

I moved back to the place where I’d made my descent.  Naevia and Zaria lowered the ladder to me.  I climbed up and we carried it toward the garden.  I could have navigated the villa in the dark.  Perhaps.  But one misstep in the thick shadows would see my advantage used up.

They lowered the ladder into the overgrown garden and I stepped as silently as possible from the softly-creaking rungs into the tall grass, crouched, listened.

Only a faint breeze stirred in the darkness.

Tightening my grip upon pommel, I crept toward the main dining room.  The night was pleasant and the doors had been left open, perhaps to avoid alerting any returning villains to disturbance within their stolen domain.

The room no longer held furniture, so I made my way through the middle.  I had noted piles of sand and windfall in the corners and along the walls.  I would not have my revenge undone by the sharp crackle of dry leaf beneath foot.

Pausing at atrium’s edge, I looked left and right.  To the right, the soft glow of a lamp danced with shadows.  The light itself was coming from the private dining area beyond.  Across the threshold, three large men took rest.

I would have to be very quick.

_****Draw breath.** ** _

_****Steady hands.** ** _

_****Begin!** ** _

The knife cut through the throat of the nearest as sword’s edge fell upon the second.  A gasp from Calius, still attending watch.  The third man startled awake before I could strike him dead, but I leaped for him absent hesitation, impaling his chest.

“Dominus!  Dominus!  Awaken!  We are under attack!”

I moved into the room, uncaring that the light would reveal my face and form.  I was ready.  I wanted Marius to know who had come to claim his life.

Calius whimpered at the sight of an intruder, but then froze, brow beetling with confusion.  “Ti… Tiberius?”

I did not answer.

 _ ** **Sense of surroundings,****_  I reminded myself, listening for indication of movement at my back, tracking the flailing arms and flapping garments upon the mattress.  I even recognized the bed as the one from his room.  The fuck never had liked traveling without it.  He undoubtedly expected to die in it one day.

Yes, he would die one day -- this coming day.  And cause of death would not stand as old age.

“Tiberius!” Marius shouted, flabbergasted.  Irritation scrunched his brows tightly over the unkind gleam in his eyes… and then he saw the sword.  The knife.  The blood.  “No!  No!” he screamed, shoving Calius in front of him.  “Protect your dominus!”

That tone of command.  How often had I leaped in response to its directive?  Calius, though he had no hope of accomplishing task set, rushed toward me with hands bare and fingers clawed.  I spun aside, tripped him into the wall and he fell through the doorway onto the bodies of the guards.

The guards who carried weapons.

Before Calius could gather senses and claim a blade, I rushed Marius.  His shriek of terror was cut off as I slammed my fist -- yet grasping sword pommel -- into his face.  He crumpled back onto his bed.

I crouched and spun, discovered Calius sitting up, gaping at the blood on his hands, panting in horror.

“You are uninjured,” I promised him, moving to Marius’ side to bind his hands behind back with the man’s own sash.  As I worked, I explained again as Calius’ shock had yet to fade: “You are absent wound.  The guards are dead and I will have Marius’ life.  You cannot stop me.”

He shook his head, chest rising with frantic, shallow breaths.  “Tiberius?  How are you here?  Do I dream?”

“Calius, take breath and regain calm, my friend.”  I dragged Marius from his bed and rolled him roughly against the wall where none of his possessions had been arranged.  Bare wall absent advantage.  I inspected the Roman’s robe for concealed weapons.

Nothing.

There was a dagger upon the bed.  He had not even thought to grasp it in his own defense.  Worthless shit.

Marius groaned.  I hit him again.  Harder this time and his skull bounced against the wall with a very satisfying, dull _****thump!****_

Turning a portion of my attention back to Calius, I could see his horror had shifted from the sight of blood upon himself to his unconscious dominus.

“What did Marius say became of me?” I inquired casually.

“Dead.  He told of your death in Capua.”

I tilted my head in agreement.  “The slave Tiberius is not dead, though neither is he alive.”

Calius’ confusion made me smile.

“It is a long tale to tell.  You will hear it if you wish, but know this--”  I leveled a hard stare at him.  “You are, as of this moment, a free man.”

“What--what?”  He shook his head.  “No.  No, I have failed Dominus.  He will have me killed.”

“By whom?”

He stared at me.  I gestured with the knife, causing him to flinch.  “Marius cannot lay hand upon you -- he is bound and will remain so.  The guards he would command will never wake.”

Calius was shaking now.

With a huff, I called, “Naevia!  Zaria!  Medicus!”

They converged on the trembling man.  Medicus and Zaria each took an arm and led him away.  Perhaps to the kitchen for a cup of wine from the hoard Medicus kept among his supplies.

Of Naevia, I asked, “Fetch harness reins from stables.  And shackles from wagon’s cart.”

She looked down at the man who had so recently forced her to submit to his will.  She blinked.  A tremulous smile formed upon her lips, gained strength, and became terrible.

I returned it.

She said, “Your will, my hands.”

Marius woke an hour after dawn to a splash of cold water.  I had decided that the bathroom would be the most _****appropriate****_  place for washing away Roman blood and filth.  Zaria and Medicus chose to remain absent.  Just as well.  They would gather the swords, armor, coin, and whatever else of use from the bodies of the guards.  Medicus had given Calius herbs to force him to slumber.  Naevia and I had all morning -- all day, really.

The Roman spat and shivered, blinked at us as he struggled to free his arms.  A fruitless endeavor considering the shackles binding his wrists behind back.  Naevia’s shackles.

The leather straps I had wrapped around his ankles, looping the ends and tying the knot too far for him to reach.  Each leg was anchored to a pillar.  He made attempt to draw his feet together, but the leather drew taut at shoulders’ width.

I had given this arrangement considerable thought and the result would serve purpose.

He struggled to his knees, lurched to his feet.  His balance was admirable considering the strain upon his skinny ankles.  I strolled over and slammed my forehead against his nose.  Blood pulsed over his mouth.  A kick to the back of his knees sent him crashing to the stone floor again.

Naevia reaffirmed grip upon knife in hand, fingers curling tightly, knuckles bloodless.  She took a step toward her tormentor and he glared venomously, spitting insults and pathetic threats.

I did not listen and she did not appear to hear him.

She knelt at his side and very deliberately stabbed him in the groin.

He shrieked.

She thrust the knife deeper.

He flailed and screamed, swung his head toward her, teeth bared.  I struck him with open palm, slapping his face hard enough for him to lose balance and tumble onto his back, torso arched awkwardly over the shackles.

Naevia crouched against the side of the raised bath, mesmerized by the knife in her hand.  Captivated by the blood upon her fingers.  “I would strike him again,” she softly admitted.

“Then strike him again,” I invited.

She did.

“How easily it pierces flesh,” she remarked, sliding the blade out of the new wound in his belly.

I recalled the first time my spear had sunk into skin and muscle.  My first fight in the arena.  The murmillo.  I had never learned his name.  Of that, I was ashamed.

I was not ashamed of this.

If I was ashamed of anything it was the amount of time -- too long! -- it had taken me to find my courage and set my own hands to fucking purpose against Rome.

My gaze followed Marius as he howled and twisted and strained.  I stood ready to knock him back.  It was very rewarding to deny him dignity as he suffered at the whims of a woman once assumed beneath him.

Well, he was beneath her blade now.  There was no escape.

There was nothing Naevia could do to the man that would disgust me -- nothing I had not witnessed Romans do to their human pets and prisoners alike.  My Germans had never seen someone nailed into a barrel.  I had.  Death by the blade -- even the slow loss of blood -- was more merciful.

Eventually, the Roman begged.  He begged for life.  Not long thereafter, he begged for simple cessation of pain.

Finally, this creature was made one of us.  Helpless.  Stripped of any thought beyond a breath absent agony.

My stomach turned.

To Naevia, I said, “I leave you with him.”

“No,” she answered, voice stronger than I had yet heard it.  “I am finished.”

My brows lifted.  It was not yet noon.  “You would not save something for Crixus?”

Naevia studied the weeping, bloodied wretch, shackled and strapped.  “There is nothing left.”

She spoke truth: he resembled a man only in most basic form.  Before us was a broken, shattered shadow.

When she offered the knife, I took it.

“Nasir!  Naevia!” Zaria shrieked.  “They return!”

_****They?** ** _

I pressed the handle of the knife back into Naevia’s grasp and hurried toward the corridor.  My wound complained but I merely pressed my arm against the wrappings to muffle its protests.  If more soldiers were standing outside the gate, climbing over the walls, charging into the villa--!

Hand upon sword, I stumbled to a halt in the atrium, gaping at the sight in the yard through open doors:

Medicus standing at open gate.

Familiar horses.  Slave wagon.  Libo.

Undefeated Gaul.

Dimple-cheeked German.

In the wake of my relief, joy pulsed under my skin and the wound snarled.  I clenched my jaw against it and held my ground as my lover jogged up the steps and ducked into the villa, striding purposefully across the tiled floor.  I was peripherally aware of Naevia drifting toward the portico, wary and hopeful.  She descended the steps, almost floating with disbelief… and then Agron’s form blocked my view and I grinned madly at his outstretched arms, swayed toward him, and fell into his smelly heat and dusty grasp.

My hand splayed over his cheek, guiding him close for a kiss.  He cupped the back of my head, fingers tangling in sweaty, unwashed strands.  Enthusiastic press of lips softened into gentle merger.  I had missed his taste; I had thirsted and ached for it.  It took all of my self-restraint to sate my desire for him slowly, gently, shallowly.  His tongue swept between my lips and alongside mine.  I shivered, fingers clenching, and moaned approval.  Or invitation.

He pulled back on a happy giggle that turned into abject worry when he caught sight of my bloody hands.  His fingers skimmed over my armor in question and I made effort to gather senses.

“Naevia and I,” I began.  Stopped.  Started anew, “Marius is here.”

“Marius?”  My lover’s eyes blazed with merciless ferocity.

I thrilled at the sight.  “He arrived yesterday evening for property inspection.  Apologies,” I informed through a lopsided grin.  “There is not much left of him.”

“The fuck yet lives?”

“Only due to timing of your arrival.”

He stared at me for a long moment.  “I would lay eyes on him.”

_****Eyes or hands?** ** _

I pressed palm to his armored chest, compelled to explain.  “I wish him dead.  I care not by whose hand.”  My gaze drifted toward the yard where Crixus yet embraced Naevia to him.  Her toes hovered above the ground.  The Gaul smiled -- _****smiled.****_   I had never seen the expression grace his lips absent mockery or viciousness.

Others milled about, having disembarked from wagon’s cart.  Familiar faces I would welcome.  However.  This took precedence.  I said, “I would offer the kill to Crixus.”

“And not to me?”

Conducting a thorough study of my lover’s face, smiling at his scrunched brow and tightly frowning lips, I shrugged.  “Take his life if you desire.  But do not do it for my sake.”

He made a sound of protest.  “He is--”

“A Roman,” I interjected.  The argument could be made that the fuck had never known any better than to be what he was.  Instead, I supplied reminder: “I made choice to be his body slave.  Naevia was given no such consideration under his roof.”  She had even been denied the thin veil of protection awarded to common house slaves.  A whore would have received gentler treatment.

Agron’s jaw clenched.  His forehead lowered, pressed against mine.  He released a long breath against my cheek, warming me to my core.  Odd -- I hadn’t realized how cold-alone-empty my chest had yawned and ached in his absence.  I had blamed all discomfort on wound.

“Naevia had just surrendered knife -- asked me to finish the deed -- when you were announced.”

Agron pulled back.  His fingers returned to previous task, absently massaging my itchy scalp, and my lover scowled thoughtfully toward the couple at the base of the steps.  “I would not interrupt them.  Will the fuck last a little longer?”

I gave it a moment’s thought.  Winced.  “Perhaps not.”

“Then we present choice.  Come.”

Of course Crixus wanted to kill the Roman shit.  Once Agron’s words made it through the tears and kisses and unbreakable embrace, nothing would stop Crixus from claiming the life of the most recent man to harm Naevia.

She presented her lover with the still-bloody knife, but he gently curled her hands around the hilt.  “Keep it,” he rasped.  “It is too clean a death for Roman filth.”

As Crixus moved to enter the villa, Agron caught his arm.  “I would witness.”

The Gaul nodded amicably and I stood amazed at the mend between them.  “Nasir as well,” Crixus invited, turning to look me in the eye, “if it pleases you.”

It did.  Agron and I stood on the threshold side by side, his arm across my back and mine looped over his waist as Crixus slapped Marius awake to greet his fate with open eyes.

“I am not ashamed,” I murmured, sharing my earlier revelation.  Of all the things Agron would ever know of my true nature, I would ensure that _**this**_ rooted deepest into memory.

Agron pressed a hard kiss to my temple, accepting the beast as well as the brother.  “Nasir,” he said simply, and Crixus wrapped strong hands around the throat of my former dominus.

Naevia stood beside her man, hand upon his bare upper arm beneath shoulder guard’s edge and fingers curled hard.  To better feel the exact moment when life left Marius’ eyes.  It was brutal and stomach-turning, disgusting and real.  Real, _****finally.****_   I shuddered when it was done, some unseen shackle falling from me once and for all.

“The body,” Crixus requested quietly as he and Naevia supported each other, turning away from the crumpled heap of Roman; one shade of the past put to grass.  The first of many.

Agron nodded.  “Nasir and I will see it done.”

And from his tone, it would be a pleasure.  I wondered if he planned on burying the corpse or tossing pieces into the woods for the beasts to find.  I imagined dirt pouring into gaping, open mouth.  I envisioned boar and crows squabbling over what remained of his fingers, ass, cock.

“He is dead?”

I turned at the inquiry.  Calius.  He frowned, perhaps still muddled with artificial sleep, but his eyes were clear.  I told firmly: “Marius is dead.  Will you look?”

Calius shook his head.  “No.  I… no.”  He lifted his hands, stared at his empty, unblemished palms, and asked, “What do I do now?”  Lifting chin, he pleaded, “Tiberius, what do I do?”

I faced him and gently corrected: “My brothers call me Nasir.”  I raised hands, rough and callused and smeared with blood.  “I have chosen to fight the Romans.”

“Fight.  Romans.”  He repeated the words woodenly, their meaning unknown to him.

“That is my choice.  I would have you make your own.  Stay with us and consider it.”

“Stay?”  His eyes widened.  “I am free to leave?”

“If that is your wish.  None will stop you.”  But I could imagine how daunting the idea was for a man who had been born a slave of Rome.  How daunting it would be for me had I never met my Germans.  “Would you return to villa and ask others to accompany you?”

“I…”  He swallowed.  “There is nowhere we can go that is beyond Rome’s reach.”

“There is,” Agron spoke firmly, standing at my back, keeping his distance with surprising tact.  “There is a wide world.  Rome would have you think it conquered, but it is not.”

I agreed.  “Where do all the barbarians hail from, Calius?”

He gave me a shaky smile, accepting the logic even as the idea of barbarians terrified him.  With a nod, he wandered toward the portico.

“He came here with Marius?”  Agron moved to my side, frowning after the former slave.

I nodded.  “And six guards.”

His head whipped around, eyes wide and expression quickly hiking from thrilled to overjoyed.

I beamed, unreasonably proud of myself.  Medicus had cursed quite creatively when he’d inspected my wound and found the stitches still holding despite a few drops of new blood.  One day, my luck would be spent, yes, but not quite yet.

Agron grinned.  “How many did you permit Naevia to slay?”

“None!” I squawked, indignant.  Had I encouraged her to join nighttime battle following but one short knife lesson, Crixus would have torn me limb from limb.  Surely Agron was aware I possessed more sense than that!

His eyes narrowed in playful speculation: “The skinny shit of a medicus killed how many?”

I crossed my arms.  “None.”

“Zaria?”

I rolled my eyes.  He was being ridiculous.  “None.”

His teeth flashed a hungry smile.  His fingers tweaked my chin.  “Show me.”

I led him to the pile of bodies.  We would have to bury them soon or the stink would be their revenge upon us.

Agron chuckled, warm and low.  Proud.  “Fuck the man from behind,” he assessed.

I fidgeted; my victory was unfair.  “I would face them.  When wound is healed, I would--”

“No.”  He shifted to lower his gaze to mine.  My right hand hooked around the back of his neck.  His fingertips brushed over my jaw and cheeks.

He told me: “This is not the arena.  There is no crowd to please.  You fight for your life.  You fight to return to my arms.  Fuck the Romans.”

His earnest look did not allow for argument.  I acquiesced; it was no hardship.  His words were more than pleasing.  They inspired.

I rewarded him with a soft kiss.

“Hm,” he approved low and deep in the back of his throat, and I could think of nothing beyond peeling the Roman armor from his body and measuring every muscled curve and hard edge of his form with my gaze, palms, lips.

Later.

Agron and I enlisted three of the arrivals to assist with digging a grave large enough.  Lysandros was a welcome sight.  As was Vitus, though I did not know him well.  Pyrrhus had a vaguely familiar face but I had never seen him in the ludus.  Peirastes accompanied them with a clutch of swords and shields.

“Go with Agron,” the gladiator commanded as an instructor would set students to task.  “On the morrow, we continue training.”

“Training,” I congratulated, lifting my brows at Lysandros: I remembered his badly concealed yearning for the feel of steel in hand.

How he spoke through his smile, I did not know.  “We’ve heard tales of a house slave who became a gladiator.”

“Truly?” I drawled.

Shifting close chest-to-back, Agron rubbed my arms.  “This recruit’s words prove true.  That same man fought in the arena of Capua.  He even freed another there.”

“Impressive!” Lysandros applauded.  “How can others not be inspired to like greatness?”

I had no ready response to such a query.

Vitus shuffled closer to ask, “Do we take midday meal before setting to task?”

Agron nodded the both of them and Pyrrhus toward the kitchen.

In the wake of their clattering footsteps, I wondered of Gordianus’ fate.  I would likely never know if Numerius had followed through on his threat to ruin the man.  To return to Capua and make inquiries would likely see me nailed to Roman cross.

Agron’s lips nudged my ear.  “What secrets do you yet hold?”

Back yet pressed to his chest, I told him my thoughts in full -- there no longer stood any reason not to.  I recalled the funeral games and my resolve to stand against the veteran Gordianus on the sands, my discovery of well-loved cloth, our secret negotiations, and agreement to fight to return to the ones we each held to heart.

I then dared to ask of my actions that day in the arena: “Am I forgiven?”

“No,” Agron promptly replied, wrapping an arm across my chest when I stiffened.  “You ask for a thing not required; you acted from heart.  Such is your way.”

Acceptance.  I could breathe again.  Smile.  Fuck the gods, it was better than forgiveness.

I greeted Libo’s return with a wide grin.  “You look the part of a rebel now.”

He adjusted the sword belt slung across his chest.  In the little time I had known the man, I could see him gaining flesh and strength despite his years.  “And quite pleased to stand so!”

“If you can stand -- or ride -- a little longer, we must scout a grave site.”  I glanced toward the bodies.

He patted my shoulder and looked to Agron for instruction.

I would have gone as well, but Medicus would probably throttle me if I continued to test my limits.

I glanced around, but the one I sought was strangely absent.  “Our brother does not return with you?” I chastised Agron for the omission.

Agron’s thumb brushed against my neck and behind my ear.  “He is well.  He stands with Spartacus and leads the others here.”

I was not wholly surprised that Duro had remained; someone who knew the way would have to take on that charge, but I knew it could not have been easy for Agron to leave his brother and the promise of more battles.

“Would you not join him?  Take wagon for hauling provisions gained at fallen villas and…”

Agron gave me a wry grin.  “Just returned to your arms yet you would send me from them so soon?”

“You know my meaning,” I grumbled.

He kissed my forehead.  “Tonight, I will speak of my journey and recent events in Capua, and you will tell of your conquest over Roman invaders, and I will lie by your side until morning light forces us from slumber, and _**then**_ we will break words on what may come next.”

Appeased and satisfied, I nodded.  Lysandros, Vitus, and Pyrrhus returned ready for duty alongside Libo, who pressed a portion of cured meat and bread into Agron’s hands.

I saw them off with a wave and wondered at the new-found undercurrent of authority in my lover.  He now stood as a man of heavy charge and many duties.

Sharply-deeply-completely, I regretted not being capable of burying the men I had killed.  The hands which had done the deed ought to see it through to proper end.  Was that not my responsibility?

I sighed out my disappointment.

Returning to the villa, I did not seek out Crixus-and-Naevia -- surely they were in each other’s company and would continue to be so for many hours.  Though, I did notice that Marius’ bed within the private dining room lay vacant.  Of course.  It would yet reek of the perfumed fuck.

I sat with Calius in the kitchen as he distractedly assembled dinner.  I attended to less strenuous food preparation until Medicus badgered me into lying down upon hearth-side pallet to rest.  There was much within the villa to tend to: a body in the bathroom to remove to the yard, the bath itself to clean and fill with water for evening ablutions, the wagon to empty of provisions--

“Fucking sleep,” Medicus barked and, breathing out a laugh, I closed my eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Nasir’s business side. (CLEARLY.) Like, he never shirks or cringes away from killing and gore when it needs to be dealt out or dealt with. Also, I adore the viciousness in Naevia. She and Nasir share this dark fury at being used by the Roman elite and both of them are starting to realize just how empowered they are and that the choice is theirs to decide to which ends that anger is focused, honed, and ultimately unleashed. Rome really has sown the seeds of its own destruction, hasn't it?
> 
> Well. Here we are at the end of Part 4: Fugitives. Last chance to share a kudo with me! And I would DEARLY love to hear what you enjoyed about this installment (or what you're liking about the series so far)!


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